


Survivor

by Popcornjones



Series: Sherlock's Return Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Gaping, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Cock & Ball Torture, Comfort/Angst, Depression, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Genital Torture, Gratuitous Smut, Heavy Angst, Hospital Sex, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injured John Watson, Jealous Sherlock, John has another lover, John-centric, Love, Love Triangles, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Torture, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Smut, Top John, antidepressants, consenual sex, ennui
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-10-02 16:51:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10222844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones
Summary: After the events of 'Return of The Thing,' John is left seriously injured – and with two men who love him. Will he choose Sherlock? Or will he turn his back on both of them?This takes place after the Reichenbach Fall. Let's just pretend seasons three and four never happened. They're nowhere as good as the first two anyway.





	1. Where Is Shane?

Sherlock grabbed Shane by the collar. "He's asking for you." He hissed. "Why are you out here?”

"Yes, all right!" Shane said angrily. Then he shook his head. "I don't know what's wrong with me." He'd been walking around the block and loitering near the entrance since he’d arrived hours ago. He still had the red blanket from the Ambulance around his shoulders.

"Come on." Sherlock opened the door.

"Wait – what did the doctor say?" Shane eyed the door nervously. "What's John's prognosis?"

"Ask him yourself." Sherlock snapped. "You're the bloody boyfriend! Act like it!"

Shane looked ashamed, but he also looked panic-stricken. He was sweaty, his breathing shallow, his eyes darted back and forth looking for escape. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders unconvincingly and walked past Sherlock into the building. "Lead the way." He said.

Sherlock stalked disgustedly to the bank of lifts and stabbed the button. "What happened, Bruno? Your mum go into hospital and never come out? Baby Bruno gets a complex?"

"Shut up." Shane panted. 

“I don't care what sort of trauma made you hate hospital” Sherlock snarled. “You're staying with him for as long as he wants you."

“Yes! Of course!” He looked pissed, but also like he expected Sherlock to be dickish. Regardless, it distracted Shane long enough to get him on the lift and up to John's floor in stony silence. He hesitated when the doors opened – wrinkling his nose in disgust at the hospital smell.

"For christ's sake!" Sherlock swore. He grabbed Shane's arm and shoved him out into the hall. "Do you want John to SEE me dragging you to his room?!"

"No... no…."

"Then get in there! Room 615."

Sherlock watched Shane walk stiffly down the hall and peer into the room. He tried to smile as he disappeared into the room.

Returning to his chair near John's door, Sherlock sagged into it. He could hear John and Shane murmuring, Shane apologetic, comforting – not yet realizing there was no comforting John.

Or maybe there was – maybe Shane knew what to say. Maybe he could break through the stony wall John was erecting between himself and the world.

John had bounced back after his other kidnappings. There were nightmares, especially after Moriarty and the semtex vest, but John never mentioned them and they faded over time. 

But he hadn’t been physically injured then.

John hadn’t been in his room when Sherlock arrived at hospital. All they would tell him was that he was undergoing tests and treatments. Sherlock had started to argue with them, but Mycroft’s functionary stepped in. He’d been sent to advocate for John while Sherlock and Shane had been with Moran, and he smoothed away any problems with hospital staff. Sherlock camped out in intensive care and the steady beeps and whirs of all the machinery had lulled him to sleep. They’d been up all night after all. 

He woke up at half eight when a nurse came in to take John’s vitals – he hadn’t woken when John had been returned to the room, nor when John’s breakfast tray had been delivered. As he wiped the drool off his cheek, Sherlock assessed John. He was polite to the nurse but not friendly. He smiled grimly when she checked his urine output and adjusted his I.V. He asked only one question.

“When can I speak to the doctor?”

Her reply had been non-committal. 

“Surely John’s doctor can spare a moment to talk to him now.” Sherlock interjected. 

“Sherlock…” John’s voice was taut. “Stay out of this.”

“No, John, you need…”

“I said stay out of it.” John didn’t raise his voice, but he didn’t have to. He used his command voice, his ‘Captain Watson’ voice. He sounded dangerous. John waited until Sherlock nodded. 

“Don’t mind him.” John said to the nurse. “He’s always a dick.”

She escaped the room as quickly as possible. 

“You’re OK?” John asked when they were alone. “Did he hurt you?”

“Just bruised.” Sherlock told him. “Dusette and Bruno’s serendipitous arrival put him off me.”

“Good.” John closed his eyes. “How is Shane? Did he… survive?”

“He’s suffering from nothing but a bit of shock – he shot Moran at close range.” Sherlock frowned. “I thought he’d be here – we came directly to hospital together.”

“He shot Moran?”

“Yes.” And Sherlock told him a short version of how Shane and Dusette had killed Moran while Sherlock was shackled in the center of the room.

“Thank you.” John said. “For saving him.”

“That was merely a by-product of trying to save YOU.”

“I know.” John still lay with his eyes closed, both arms under the warming blankets. “I didn’t expect him to go back in.”

“I was honestly shocked when he stepped out of hiding. I had no idea he was there. I expect Moran was equally as surprised – it gave us the upper hand.”

“Mmmm. Where is he?”

“I’ll go find him.”

“No. Stay with me for a while.”

Sherlock pulled his chair closer to the bed and laid his hand on John’s shoulder. John smiled briefly in acknowledgement. He wanted to ask John how he was, but made himself wait for the doctor. It disturbed Sherlock that John didn’t offer him a hand to hold – that he hadn’t moved his arms once since Sherlock woke up. He hadn’t moved his legs either. The memory of how swollen and white his hands and feet had been, how he hadn’t been able to button his jeans… or walk…

Sherlock set those thoughts aside for now. John was alive and safe. The rest he’d discover when the doctor deigned to stop by. 

They stayed like that for an hour. John asked after Dusette and they argued about who should eat the breakfast that had got cold while they slept. They finally agreed that neither of them would take on the hardening porridge, but both of them would have some lunch when it arrived.

Sherlock suspected that John’s unwillingness to eat had more to do with whatever dysfunction his hands had suffered than the unappetizing nature of the breakfast. But he didn’t ask. 

When the doctor arrived, Sherlock examined her closely. Late-forties, slightly overweight, signs that she’d been caring for a baby – spit up on her shoulder and dark circles under her eyes. Given her age – and the wear on her wedding ring – Sherlock thought grandchild was rather more likely. But her adult daughter lived with her. Despite clear signs of exhaustion, she was energetic and prepared. 

“Dr. Watson? I’m Dr. Phelps, I specialize in circulatory problems. We met last night, but you were a bit out of it.”

“I remember.” John said. “No obvious signs of organ failure, but we’ll monitor closely. Especially kidneys and bowel. You’re mostly concerned about my extremities.”

She nodded in mild surprise. “Your kidney function is normal this morning.” She said, referring to John’s chart. “Heart rate is normal…blood pressure is better, but still slightly low.” She wrote something on the chart. “How is your pain?”

“Manageable. I’m more worried about lack of pain.”

She nodded. “I’m going to examine your feet.” She set her sheaf of papers aside and without ceremony yanked the blankets off John’s lower legs and folded it up over his knees. There was ugly red bruising on his calves and ankles all around the rope burns. John’s feet were still pale and mottled but when she touched them, he wiggled his toes. “Good.” She said. “How does this feel?” She ran a finger up the sole of one foot.

“It tickles.”

“Excellent. And the other?” She asked repeating the test on his left foot.

“Erm… it doesn’t tickle, but I can feel it.”

“Mm. You were lying on your left side?”

“I woke up on my right side. I don’t know how long I’d been unconscious or how long I’d been tied up. I managed to roll onto my knees but soon after I was put in a …a little hammock, on my back. After 20 minutes or so I was left alone and shifted onto my left side – I didn’t want to choke on vomit. And I didn’t want both hands underneath me.”

She nodded, still probing his feet. “How long were you on your left side.”

“I don’t know. Hours, maybe.”

She nodded again, frowning. She covered his feet back up. “Right hand.” She said.

John dutifully pulled his hand out from under the blanket and presented it to her. She ignored the striping bruises down his arm and the bandages that covered the wounds on is wrist and focused on is fingers. She pinched his little finger. 

“Ow!” 

“Good.” She pinched each finger in turn and smiled when it hurt him. “Now make a fist.” John complied. “How does that feel?”

“Clumsy.”

She noted his responses and moved around the bed to his left side. Sherlock was obliged to move, he stood at the foot of the bed and watched John pull his left hand out. His fingers were swollen still and the flesh so white the red bruises at his wrist looked lurid. Sherlock watched her pinch his finger when he was looking away. He didn’t react. Sherlock’s stomach twisted. 

Dr. Phelps pinched the tips of his fingers, then between his fingers, then his palm… her expression grew grimmer with each negative. John didn’t acknowledge her touch until she was above his wrist. He steadfastly looked away from both of them – Sherlock realized John had already known what she’d find. 

“There’s nothing you can do.” John said. It wasn’t a question.

“There are things we can try – things we should try – but the chance of success is low.”

John nodded. “Will you wait for it to become gangrenous before amputating?”

“What?!” Sherlock didn’t realize he was speaking until it was already out of his mouth. Both John and the doctor looked at him disapprovingly. “Sorry. Sorry.” Sherlock said. “I just didn’t realize… I’ll shut up.”

He just hadn’t realized that while he and Shane had been bickering about what to do and how to save him, Moran had tied John up and left him to slowly die from lack of blood flow. John’s left hand had died first. 

Sherlock put the rest of the conversation together. If John had been left tied up, eventually his organs would have failed and he would have died. That hadn’t happened. His organs were functioning normally. His extremities hadn’t been so fortunate. He’d laid on his left side so his left hand and foot were more affected than his right.

John an amputee. It was unimaginable.

“No.” Dr. Phelps said turning her attention back to John. “Gangrene is dangerous. We’d take the hand before that happened. But we aren’t at that point yet. As I said, there are some therapies we should try first.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“The good news is that your right hand does not seem to have sustained any lasting damage. The clumsiness you’re experiencing will pass. Your feet are doing well. You may have some lasting effects – cramping, varicose veins, the potential for deep vein thrombosis, things that are inevitable with compromised circulation – or your legs might fully recover as well. We’ll continue stimulating blood flow for now.”

John tucked his left arm back under the blankets. “Thank you, doctor.” He said. 

She scribbled on her papers. “I’m recommending more balloon therapy and massage and we’ll get started on volt therapy later this afternoon. All right? Dr. Moon will be by shortly to discuss your other injuries. I’ll check in on you later, Dr. Watson.”

John nodded. “Thank you.” He repeated.

When she was gone, John closed his eyes again. Sherlock was at a complete loss.

“This is my fault.” He said. “If I hadn’t come back…”

“No!” John cut him off with a furious glare. “Moran would have taken me anyway. He didn’t know you were alive. If you hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t have been there to get me out. There’s only one person to blame for any of this. And he’s dead now.”

Sherlock pulled a chair up to the right side of John’s bed and took his hand, his right hand. His living hand. He interlaced their fingers and John sighed, some of the tension leaving his body. 

“Tell me about the bees.” John said, closing his eyes again.

“Bees?” Sherlock remembered he’d read several books about bees and beekeeping years ago. He’d tried telling John about them at the time, but John had put him off. Now Sherlock launched into his theory of geometric flight, with plenty of background information. He would have thought that John had gone to sleep, but occasionally he’d squeeze Sherlock’s hand gently. 

He loved John so much! It was completely inadequate - prattling on about bees when John was losing his hand. But Sherlock talked on until Dr. Moon arrived.

"How are you feeling, Dr. Watson?" Moon asked.

John sighed. "I've been better, Dr. Moon."

Sherlock waited by the door while the doctor examined John.

Sherlock knew what to expect - he’d watched as Moran had cut the ropes binding John, he'd helped rinse the blood and vomit from his body, had carried him to a couch and helped him drink juice. Sherlock had seen the angry welts on John’s buttocks and bollock and on his cock. He knew what Sebastian Moran has done to him.

But he still wasn't prepared for what he saw now - the deep abrasions on his hips and thighs where the ropes had dug in and worn his skin away, bruises everywhere, blue, red, brown, green - all along his torso, his chest and neck – Sherlock had similar bruises on his own neck from where Moran’s fingers had dug in - up and down his legs and arms, wrists and ankles. The worst was John's swollen genitals, black with subcutaneous bleeding, the criss-crossing welts from the crop still an angry red. The catheter looked for all the world like a thermometer stuck in a mass of ground beef.

Dr. Moon gave John an ice pack and helped him settle it gently against his abused manhood. They talked in low tones for another minute or so, then the doctor covered John up again, made notes on John's chart and left.

Sherlock returned to his chair by the bed, but John's mood had changed. He was unsettled and withdrawn.

Sherlock tried to take his hand again, But John pulled away. "I'm not in the mood right now." He said.

"Oh..."

"Don't look at me like that." John snapped. "I don't want your pity."

"I - I'm not... I wanted to ask a favor."

John looked at Sherlock with surprise. Sherlock thought it was the first time this morning John had actually looked at him. "What?" He asked, his tone softer.

"Would... would you touch me? Just once more?" Sherlock faltered. "I don't want Moran to be the last person who touched me, who kissed me." Now it was Sherlock who couldn't meet John's gaze. "I know this isn't a good time..."

"It's fine." John said. He patted the bed indicating Sherlock should sit. "I don't want that for you either. Sit down." His right hand found Sherlock's chest and travelled across it. "Why are you wearing this ratty, old jumper?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly. "I was disguised - I've been living in an artists' colony."

"I don't like it." John's hand caressed Sherlock's cheek - Sherlock closed his eyes and savoured the sensation. John's fingers felt wonderful. John pulled him forward and kissed him. 

Before when they had kissed, it had been frantic, desperate - both making the most of the short time they had together. This kiss was different. It was languorous, slow, but still passionate. Sherlock thought he could kiss John for the rest of his life and not know all the ways John could kiss him.

"I love you." Sherlock murmured, when John released him. He nuzzled John's neck, the warm place by his collarbone, his jaw - until John pushed him gently away. "Thank you." Sherlock said.

John nodded. "I'm glad he didn't hurt you, Sherlock. I'm glad you're ok."

"You'll be ok too..." John's expression changed, all softness fled, his eyes flashed with something Sherlock couldn't identify and then became distant, hooded. Sherlock realized he'd said the wrong thing. "John... you will..."

"Stop." John said, the pain in his voice heartbreaking. He turned away.

Sherlock sat back on his chair and watched John hide himself under the blankets, his good hand disappearing, his eyes closed.

“John…” He started softly. 

“Where IS Shane?” John asked abruptly. “It’s going on ten a.m. – you said you came here together?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe something happened to him. Can you check?”

“Yes. Certainly.” Sherlock stood up. “Will you be ok…?”

“Yes, of course. I’m fine.” John said brusquely, closing his eyes again, shutting Sherlock out, dismissing him.

Sherlock waited for more, but John said nothing. He went in search of Shane Bruno.


	2. A Day at Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a suspicious death in the critical care ward...

There was a commotion at the other end of the hall – a voice raised in alarm, another voice with a note of hysteria, someone else shushing her and issuing orders, running feet...

Sherlock stood up. He could see a knot of hospital personnel gathered, several attempting to calm a middle aged woman in street clothes. 

He glanced into John's room. Shane was sitting on the bed – in the same place Sherlock had sat when John kissed him – with his forehead pressed against John's, their arms around each other. He could hear them speaking softly. Shane knew how to give John what he needed. Sherlock had never felt so ambivalent – truly grateful that John had someone so good for him on one hand, insane with jealousy on the other. 

Sherlock strode down the hall towards the commotion. 

"He wasn't that sick!" The woman was insisting. "The doctor said he was recovering! He was going to be moved out of critical care today! He was coming home soon! He shouldn't be dead! He was getting better! "

Sherlock waited until the nurses moved the woman away and peered into the room. A middle aged man lay peacefully on the bed – he could be asleep except for his pallor and the stillness of his chest, it didn't rise and fall with the regular breath of sleep. Sherlock picked up his chart. Simon Fraser had had pleurisy caused by pneumonia. He'd been treated with antibiotics and ibuprofen. He was indeed on the mend. Or had been. 

There was a note scribbled in the margin – something about prescribing Abilify. Sherlock frowned – Abilify was an antipsychotic. He scanned the rest of the chart, but didn't find any reason why an antipsychotic would be prescribed for this patient.

Setting down the chart, Sherlock peeled back the blanket and touched the man's wrist – he was cold. Further prodding made it clear he was in full rigor. The body was dressed in a suit of striped flannel pajamas. He leaned in and sniffed the body – the face, the chest – there was no unexpected odor.

Kneeling, Sherlock pushed the man's sleeve up his arm. Then tugged the pajama top up at the hip and used the flashlight on his smartphone to examine the skin – yes, lividity discolored the back. He stood and pulled the clothing back into place.

Sherlock scanned the room. He could examine the body more closely in the morgue, he wouldn't get a better chance at the scene than now. 

It was much the same as John's – the layout was the mirror image with the same bed, chairs, cabinet, rolling table and machinery. There was a bouquet of dying flowers and two 'get well' cards on the cabinet, a magazine, a smartphone (a quick poke showed it was password protected), an unopened box of dairy milk candies, wine gums, tissues and a telly remote on the rolling table. A chair was pulled up next to the bed and a woman's purse sat beside it. It was an oversized affair with more magazines among the usual wallet-keys-lipstick-lotion-breath mints-kleenex-etc. that women packed their purses with. This woman had been distraught enough to leave her purse – wallet and smartphone plainly visible.

Any other personal item must have been stowed inside the cabinet. It was really quite depressing, the room. (Sherlock hadn't noticed in John's room because John was in it – any room inhabited by John became automatically more interesting.) 

The chart had said the dead man was 54 – young to pass in his sleep. A compromised immune system in hospital was an invitation for opportunistic infection, but the man had been improving. He could have had a stroke or a heart attack or any number of things, but in critical care, that should be noticed before the loved one comes to visit.

How HAD no one noticed the man had died before 11 a.m.?

"Excuse me, sir, what are you doing in here?" 

Sherlock turned – a nurse had entered and was looking at him with alarm and belligerence. "Trying to work out how a man could be in rigor mortis before anyone noticed he was dead." Sherlock said, demonstrating the corpse's stiffness by trying to lift the arm by the wrist.

The nurse's eyes narrowed. "Looking for something to steal, are ya? Though you'd rumble the dead man?"

The nurse hadn't answered the question. Sherlock looked him over – mid-thirties, gay, burly and hirsute, a thick layer of fat padding his strong, mesomorph frame. He wore purple scrubs, same as all the nurses, but his strained across his broad shoulders... and they were soiled by more than one wearing. On the inside of his forearm, he had a tattoo of an owl on a shield. His thumb worried at the base of his ring finger, rubbing the bit of pale skin there endlessly. He was clean, but his hair was shaggy around his bald pate and his face stubbled with several days growth. His eyes were bloodshot. His I.D. hung around his neck – reading upside down, Sherlock could just make out his name: Angus Church.

Sherlock displayed his empty hands. "No, as I said, I'm trying to work out how a man can be dead at least six hours in a critical care unit before anyone notices. That's rather alarming, is it not?"

"Who are you?" The nurse's accent was northern.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I'm sorry about your recent breakup, Nurse Church, did he go back to Sheffield?"

Angus Church goggled with surprise. "How did you...?"

"Because it's what I do. This man..." Sherlock gestured at the corpse. "... has died in suspicious circumstances. The pleurisy wasn't life-threatening, he was on the mend, yet he died overnight. He died and no one noticed. I expect that's not how things normally go here."

"No..."

"It hasn't happened before?"

"Well, people die..."

"Yes, but you notice."

"Yes."

"Thank you." Sherlock said dismissively and swept out of the room. He retreated down the hall and thought about what to do. He could text Lestrade – but the inspector didn't know Sherlock was back, or alive even. With John injured, this wasn't the time to announce his return. 

Sherlock watched the activity. The woman, the dead man's partner, was eventually sedated and settled in a vacant bed. A doctor was in with the dead man briefly, then attendants came and took Simon Fraser away.

Sherlock watched a while longer. Nurse Church closed the door with a pointed look at Sherlock. 

Shane and John were still deep in conversation when Sherlock went by the room. He took the stairs down to the cafeteria and got some tea. He put extra sugar in it and drank it slowly. It was lunchtime and the cafeteria was busy. He remembered he was supposed to eat lunch with John. John would insist that he eat. Sherlock bought some jello and ate it.

He returned to critical care and found Shane lurking nervously in the doorway of John's room. 

"What happened down there?"

"A patient died. Where's John?" Sherlock asked, seeing the empty bed.

"They've taken him for therapy." Shane said unhappily. "It will be several hours. John wants us to go home for a wash and a change of clothes."

"You go, I'll stay here."

"No, John made me promise. My place isn't far, come with me. I'm sure I have something that would fit you."

Sherlock wrinkled his face in displeasure. "No. No, I'm not leaving."

Shane grimaced. "He said he'd bar you from seeing him if you didn't. You know him. You know that he means it."

Sherlock did know. "Fine! But I'm not wearing your clothes."

"John wants you to get rid of the jumper. He hates it."

Sherlock felt like throwing a tantrum, but that would give Shane Bruno ammunition. Instead he stamped out of the room. Shane caught up at the lifts.

They didn't speak again until they were in the cab. 

"You were right." Shane said softly.

"Of course I was." Sherlock snapped. "About what?"

Shane smiled briefly. "About hospital. It wasn't me mum, though, it was my sister. We both were in hospital when I was very young, four, I think. They didn't let parents stay overnight with their kids then. I'd always shared a bedroom with my brothers, I wasn't used to being alone at night. It was terrifying – the dark, all the noises, the smells. I hated the way hospital smelled. All I wanted, all night, every night, was to see my sister. I remember crying for her, she always hugged me when I cried. But no one came. I never saw my sister again. We went into hospital together but only I came home. For years, I thought it had eaten her, the hospital... it's not an excuse, it's just a reason. I know I have to get over it."

Sherlock eyed him. Shane was calmer now, more the self-assured, successful man he was before John had been taken. He thought of the glimpse he'd had, of John embracing him, accepting the comfort Shane offered, and that terrible ambivalence rose up inside of him again.

"I know..." Sherlock started slowly. "I know you give John things that I can't. Things that he needs. I'm... very grateful... that he has you."

Shane scoffed. "Sounds like you'd rather pass a kidney stone than admit that." Shane observed. "Thank you."

Sherlock nodded, it was true. "Why did you go back in? To Moran's compound?" It bothered Sherlock that he hadn't seen that potential in Shane. Even now it was a mystery.

Shane gave him a look Sherlock couldn't decipher. "Because he loves you. It would crush him if you died. Again."

Sherlock winced. 

"We should try to get along." Shane said. "For John. It doesn't seem like either of us are going away any time soon."

"Mm." Sherlock buried several nasty retorts and settled for noncommittal. Bruno, as Sherlock was constantly reminded, was a good man. "You know John will lose his hand."

"John said that wasn't for sure."

"No one is expecting a miracle. John knows it."

"Oh."

"If you're not going to be able to handle it, get out now, Bruno."

"No, no... I appreciate you telling me... here we are." The cab had pulled up at the posh three-flat Sherlock had traced him to before. He had an unwelcome flash of memory – Shane kissing John's chest, his neck, his hands traveling over John's body, John's pleasure evident on his face... he banished the image to the garbage heap behind his memory palace.

Sherlock followed Shane up the stairs to the third floor and took in his surroundings. 

Bruno wasn't the sort of gay man who went in for decorating, apparently. The sparse furnishings had all seen better days, but they had been expensive once, well-made. The openness of the space was pleasing. The only bit of clutter in the room was Bruno's desk – he was a writer. True crime, Sherlock recalled with slight distaste. Of course the one book he'd read had been exhaustively researched, well-written, accurate and compelling. Sherlock hadn't been able to find fault with it. That didn't change the fact that most copies were sold in drugstores and airports, Sherlock reminded himself with petty satisfaction.

Shane guided him to the guest toilet and left him there saying something about clothes.

John had been right. Bathing made Sherlock feel better. Just washing Moran's touch from his skin was marvelous. He resisted the urge to scrub himself raw everywhere the man's hands had been. He could still feel them...

Shane had clothes for him – boxer briefs (Shane's taste in pants WAS in line with many gay men's – bright yellow with a thick red waistband that said 'covermale'), vest, white dress shirt and brown trousers. Sherlock donned it all wondering if Shane even owned black trousers. It fit well enough. In the main room, Shane handed him an overcoat and they ran down the stairs together, Shane's brown wavy hair looking great despite being wet.

They rode back to hospital in companionable silence, the tension between them gone for the moment. As long as John needed them, they were on the same team. 

Sherlock found himself thinking about the dead patient, turning it over in his mind. It made no sense, the man dying and being left there for hours.

 

\---

 

John fell asleep in the ridiculous bladder machine. He realized this when Nurse Church came to take him to physical therapy.

"Sleeping Beauty awakes." The nurse joked in his thick accent. He helped John out of the machine very gently, assisting with a 'bro-hug' to support his weight.

"I didn't get much sleep last night." John mumbled.

"Yeah, I heard you were tied up."

John looked hard at the nurse, saw the impish look in his eyes and realized he was having a laugh. 

"That... is a terrible joke." John said and laughed – half in surprise at the man's cheek.

"I was worried it was too soon for a second there." He supported John while he stood and pulled the wheelchair over.

"I can walk to the chair." John said. 

"Of course you can. But the physical therapist wants all the credit, doesn't she? So I can't let you."

"What about that silly thing?" John asked, gesturing at the bladder machine. "Can't it take the credit? Where'd it come from, anyway?"

"Sports doctor invented it for endurance athletes – Tour de France types. It's supposed to stimulate circulation and recovery in between stages, innit."

"Does it actually work?" John asked doubtfully. "Do cyclist actually climb into that thing?"

"Yes and yes, as improbable as that seems."

"Too easy to get caught doping, they had to come up with something else?"

The nurse laughed. "Spot on." He said.

After PT and massage, Nurse Church wheeled John back to his room.

"You have a full house." The nurse observed.

John regarded his two lovers and frowned. "They've never shared a room without attacking each other – don't lie to me, Angus, am I dying?"

The burly nurse laughed. "I didn't realize I had this much competition, John. You shoulda warned me." He gently helped John back into his bed.

Shane came to stand by the head of John's bed – a bit territorially, John thought, amused. "Angus, this is my boyfriend, Shane Bruno. And the one over there brooding is Sherlock Holmes."

The nurse nodded at Shane then turned to Sherlock and squinted. "I met that one earlier, I think, but he looked like a hobo."

John giggled. "Hideous, ratty jumper?"

"Yeah! I was about to roust him, wasn't I – the way he was hovering over poor, dead Mr. Fraser – until he started talking and I realized he was a posh bloke slumming."

Sherlock drew himself up, managing to look quite imposing. "That jumper reminded me of one you wore, John, when we first met." 

"Oh!" The nurse turned back to John. "He has it bad for you, doesn't he." He glanced at Shane. "And now I see where ALL this tension is coming from." He winked at John. "Good luck, soldier." He said and left, pushing the empty wheelchair in front of him.

John settled into his pillows. "I feel fine." He said preemptively. "I'm walking more or less normally. I should be out of critical care tomorrow."

He felt Shane's hand in his hair and smiled. John pulled him down for a kiss. "Mm – you both look much better. I'm starving, do you think you can organize some takeaway? I'd give my left hand for a curry."

There was dead silence for a long moment... then Sherlock started to guffaw heartily. "I'll order food." He said, pulling out his phone.

Shane still looked shocked. "Don't." John said to him. "Let's just relax tonight." Angus had given him a sling for his left arm – to avoid whacking the dead hand on something and 'making matters worse.'

It couldn't be worse. If John were the surgeon, he'd have already scheduled the surgery to take the hand. Not that John would EVER perform surgery again. 

He closed his eyes against the thought and against the pain on Shane's face.

"John..." Shane said tenderly. He sat on the bed facing John. 

John looked up at him, at the caring and anguish on his face... and he HATED... "Shane, I'm fine. Even if I'm not fine, I'm fine. And I need you to be fine too." Shane had always been there when John needed him, John felt like a shit for not being able to reassure him now. But these were extraordinary circumstances. John didn't want to feel shitty tonight.

Shane nodded and sat back but he still had that tragic look on his face.

"Christ, Shane..." John exploded.

But a big, spidery hand landed on Shane's shoulder before John could bite his head off. "I've ordered from Jeland's." Sherlock said. "Why don't you go down to the lobby and get it."

A flood of relief made John feel weak. "Yes." He said. "That's a great idea."

Shane reluctantly let Sherlock propel him to the door – John could hear Sherlock saying something in Shane's ear. Good. Let him run interference for once. John had done it enough for him.

"Thanks." John said when Sherlock returned.

Sherlock shrugged. "He's ok." He said it carelessly, but John understood what it cost Sherlock to say it. 

He touched Sherlock's hand, then batted at it restlessly. "Angus said something about you and a dead man?"

"Yes. Suspicious death at the other end of the hall. I went for a look around."

"What did you find?"

"More questions. 54 year old man with pneumonia and pleurisy treated with antibiotics and ibuprofen, responding well, due to be moved from critical care today. He died overnight. No one notices until his partner comes in at 11 a.m. and becomes hysterical. He was already in full rigor when I went in."

"No one noticed? That's... incomprehensible. I know how hospitals are run... and I've had nurses and techs and therapists up my arse day and night."

"Indeed."

"Did you find anything?"

"No. I only had a few minutes before your friend Nurse Church came in – I don't think he's been negligent by the way, I took a look at the duty roster and he came on shift at 9 a.m. – I'm going to the morgue later for a closer look."

"I can ask a few questions." John volunteered. "See what the staff has to say."

Sherlock gave him a strange look. "That would be helpful, John. Just... be careful. You are in a vulnerable position – if someone here has a guilty conscience, they might strike out."

John felt a thrill of outrage – he could take care of himself! But it faded quickly. "Yeah." He hated feeling this vulnerable. 

Sherlock gave John's hand a reassuring squeeze and smiled. Abruptly he let go and looked away from John. He seemed ready to leave his side – John understood, it was hard to be so in love with someone who was with someone else. It was hard for John too – Shane and Sherlock, so different from each other, both so dear to John. Both so attractive. 

John reached out and touched Sherlock's chest, his fingers playing lightly over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of the body inside. The touch rooted Sherlock in place, his strange, silver eyes glued to John, round with wanting.

John felt the slightest hint of desire touch his groin. It was painful – psychically, to be sure, but physically as well. The memory of the torture he'd endured and what that meant for him now was a bitter, bitter taste in his mouth. He dropped his hand to the bed.

"Can you spot me to the bog?" John asked softly. "I can walk, but my balance isn't 100 percent right now. I need to take this bloody catheter out."

"Of course." Sherlock said, standing up, his face unreadable. 

John pulled back the blanket and swung his legs over the side. "There are gloves, saline and syringes in that drawer, can you bring them? No not that syringe, the bigger one – no, I don't need a needle." John said standing up.

Sherlock picked out the supplies and steadied John with his other hand. They walked the eight steps to the toilet together. 

John discarded the sling and pulled the hospital gown off in front of the mirror. He examined his torso, the bruises, the rope burns, the finger marks around his neck. He glanced once at the white, dead hand with the fingers curling loosely towards the warm, rosy wrist. They would amputate tomorrow, John was certain. 

The swelling had gone down, his cock and balls normally sized again, but black with subcutaneous bleeding – it extended down his thighs, striped with pale rope burns. He looked like some sort of half-zebra creature, alien to his own eyes. 

Jesus... he couldn't believe this – yesterday morning his biggest problem was Sherlock coming back from the dead, how conflicted he'd felt, so angry and simultaneously so happy. He wanted to spend time with him, but the anger and betrayal stood in the way. The one time they had met to talk, they'd ended up fucking. Which hadn't resolved anything.

Shane really was exceptional. He hadn't liked that John had slept with Sherlock, but he understood. He knew John had been in love with Sherlock, and that despite his anger, he still was. Shane didn't blame John, he didn't get upset. He let it go. He even thought it was kind of hot – their sex life certainly hadn't suffered. 

When Moran had taken him, none of the drama with Sherlock seemed important. Moran had tied him up with yards and yards of rope all over his body, he'd tortured him and then left him to die. Feeling his body shutting down, John had forgiven Sherlock – forgiven him absolutely. 

Then Sherlock had rescued him.

Now... none of that mattered. John was glad he wasn't dead. But everything else... it paled next to losing his hand. Shane, Sherlock, all those feelings, all that sturm and drang, nothing mattered. 

John looked at his pale and graying fingers. He could ALMOST feel them, almost make them move... but that was a trick of his mind. It was dead. John felt despair crushing in on him.

Sherlock's hand on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie. John washed his hand – it was awkward one-handed – and picked up a glove. He held it out to Sherlock. "Could you?" John asked tightly.

Sherlock helped John don the glove. John found rubbing alcohol in the medicine cabinet and doused himself. "Sherlock, can you hold this tubing straight?" John inserted the syringe in the balloon port and sucked out the fluid. He pinched the tubing close to the urethra and pulled. The catheter came out easily. "Can you throw this away?" It was a relief to have it out of his body. He ripped the glove off his hand with his teeth.

"I believe Shane brought some pajamas and other things for you." Sherlock said handing John an overnight bag. 

John fumbled it open. Bless Shane! He stepped into pajama bottoms. But he couldn't tie the drawstring. Sherlock's arms wrapped around him, underneath his own arms, and tied it for him. Then the long arms closed and held him, Sherlock's body pressed against John's back. It hurt a little, all the bruises were tender, but it was comforting just the same. 

Shane would say "I'm sorry," or "Tell me what you need," or even "I love you," and it would be wrong right now. It would push John off the knife's edge of comfort into fury and despair. 

But Sherlock didn't say anything. He kissed John's shoulder and held him and after a long moment, John relaxed and let the comfort touch him. Against John's despair and rage, it was overmatched. But John knew he could count on this comfort. He could lash out or retreat inside himself, he could scream abuse and blame Sherlock, he could be icy cold and ignore him, but no matter what Sherlock would be there with him. 

Sherlock would love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: John has surgery.


	3. Amputation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has his surgery. Sherlock investigates a suspicious death.

Sherlock didn't resume investigation into Simon Fraser's untimely death until John was taken for surgery. He'd intended to pay a visit to the morgue overnight, but when Shane came back with the takeaway, it was apparent that his discomfort with hospital went into overdrive at night. It didn't help that John was lashing out at both of them.

"You didn't get any samosas?" John demanded. 

"No, I didn't." Sherlock affirmed. 

John threw down his fork and shoved away his biryani. 

John had had a shower and was dressed in the fresh pajamas. But instead of feeling better, every little thing that Sherlock had had to help him with – tearing the wrapping off the soap, prying the lid off his deodorant, putting toothpaste on his toothbrush, unscrewing the mouthwash – made John more sour. By the time John flung the dental floss across the room in helpless rage, Sherlock knew nothing would improve John's mood this evening. The grave realities of his situation had sunken in, John would need time to process it. 

"Come on, John." Shane interjected. "This is delicious."

"Great. Enjoy." John's sarcasm was bitter.

"Do you want me to order samosas? I can go pick them up." Shane offered. 

"No. It's too late." He looked pointedly at Sherlock placidly eating curry. "Fuck it. I'm not hungry."

"Mmm." Sherlock said. John was yelling at them because he could. Because they were safe. Because if he were angry, he wouldn't have to feel the despair and self-pity. John could yell at Sherlock all day long, it didn't matter in the least to Sherlock. It was, in its way, a declaration of trust. And love. 

Shane, though, Shane was already jumpy – the hospital sounds making him startle and twitch. When John refused to eat, Shane started to fuss over him. 

"Can I get you something else? Some candy or crisps? A sandwich?"

"Just let me alone." John snapped, pulling away from Shane's touch. "In fact, get out. Both of you, I'm tired. I want to sleep."

Shane frowned. "Is that a good idea? Being here alone?"

"I'm a grownup, Shane. I don't need you – either of you – to babysit me. Spending the night in hospital doesn't give ME ridiculous panic attacks."

Shane stiffened. "That's not fair." He said quietly.

"It's not FAIR?! Go tell your mum, maybe she'll care."

Sherlock intervened. "Shane, let's go get some crisps." 

"No, I..."

Sherlock took Shane by the arm and started to pull him out into the hall, Shane tried to shrug him off. 

"Keep going." John called. "I don't want you here."

"What!?" Shane demanded when Sherlock had dragged him a few feet down the hall. "What do you want?!"

"You should go home." Sherlock told him blandly. "Get some sleep."

"No, John needs me..."

"Shane, John needs space. And he needs someone to be angry with. He can be a wanker to me all he needs, it doesn't bother me. But it's obvious that being in hospital at night is upsetting to you. And, it's obvious John is getting under your skin. Go home. Sleep in your own bed. Come back in the morning. He'll need you tomorrow."

Shane looked uncertain. "I don't want to leave him." He said. 

"I know." Sherlock said. "But you need to. He needs you to."

Shane sighed. "I'm fucking useless."

Sherlock completely agreed. "This isn't the time for self-pity, Bruno. None of this is about you. Or me. Go home and sleep so you can take care John tomorrow."

"You'll stay here tonight?"

"Yes."

"You won't leave him?"

"Of course not."

"Call me if anything changes. Call if he asks for me."

"Of course

"Give me a minute to say good night."

Sherlock nodded and watched Shane go back in with John. Angus Church was by the nurse's station with his coat on. He saw Sherlock loitering and came over. 

"I'm off." The nurse said. "How's he doing?"

"About how you'd expect." Sherlock replied.

"Mean or silent?"

"Mean." Sherlock said and shrugged. "Will you be here tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Good. He likes you."

"I like him. It's really a shame what happened – it's not going to be easy for any of you."

"I know."

Angus Church examined Sherlock. "How DID you know my partner left me? How did you know about Sheffield?"

Sherlock smiled briefly. "You unconsciously touch the place where your ring used to be – recent breakup. You show obvious signs of depression – you've stopped taking care of yourself, you look tired as if you aren't sleeping well. So, he left you. Sheffield, well it's obvious. Who else would be a big enough fan of the Wednesday to have their crest tattooed on their arm?"

"That's... that's a lot of assumptions."

"Not really."

"How did you know I was with a man?"

"Please." Sherlock said. "Nothing could be more obvious."

"It isn't to most people."

"Most people are idiots."

The nurse looked Sherlock over once again. "You three... are you all... together? A thruple?"

"What? No!"

"But you're both with John."

"No." Sherlock said. "He's with John. John and I... we're friends."

"You're more than just friends. The electricity between you... well, nothing could be more obvious." He said with a smirk.

"We're.... look, it hardly matters now."

"Angus? Is that you?" John called from his bed. Shane looked discomfited.

"Nope. I'm leaving." Angus called back.

"Oh, you can walk Shane out then." John said sounding ready to be rid of him.

"My pleasure. Goodnight, John."

Sherlock waited until they were in the lift before returning to John's bedside. "Probably better you don't eat if you're having surgery tomorrow." Sherlock said, cleaning up the takeaway.

John didn't reply. He watched Sherlock tidy the food away. After, Sherlock pulled out his phone and started looking through his email.

"I'm tired." John announced. "I'm going to sleep."

"Good." Sherlock said. "Shove over, I'm not sleeping in a chair."

John bristled. "No one asked you to stay."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just shove over." He said, unbuttoning the white shirt. John just stared at him. But when he took off Shane's brown trousers, John started to laugh.

"Shane gave you THOSE to wear." John sniggered. "He REALLY doesn't like you."

Sherlock looked down at the bright red and yellow pants with the accentuated pouch. "Clearly." He said.

John made room for Sherlock in the hospital bed. "They were a gift from an ex-boyfriend. He's never worn them, called them the 'fag pants.'"

"Charming." Sherlock got in bed and wiggled around until he could spoon John. 

"You can put your arms around me." John said.

Sherlock complied. It felt incredibly good to hold this man that he loved so much. 

"I shouldn't have been such an arse to Shane."

'No." Sherlock agreed. He felt John's long shuddering sigh.

"I don't know what I'm going to do." John said. "I hate being so dependent. I hate needing so much help with every little goddamn thing."

"John, in two weeks you'll have worked out how to do everything on your own."

"What if I can't?"

"Oh, please."

"What if ... I don't want to. I don't want any of this."

"Of course you don't. We all have things we don't want. But you can't run away. I mean, you CAN, but trust me, it's better not to fake your death and run away."

John scoffed. "Falling in love was the worst thing that's ever happened to you."

"Well, not the worst. But I handled it poorly."

"When did you know?"

"That I loved you? When I saw you wearing the explosive vest at the swimming pool. I knew I would do anything to save you. That wasn't a problem, loving you was the same as being friends, just... more intense. But when I realized I desired you... I was overwhelmed."

"When was that?"

"Mm, sometime later. You know.. I liked Irene, she wanted a...physical relationship. I considered it, but I couldn't...I couldn't picture myself with her like that. I can't claim to be asexual, I had – have – sexual desires. I just banished them long ago when they started getting in the way of my studies, my work. I thought not wanting her, it was... confirmation... that I was meant to be celibate.

"She went into hiding and I went on as before. Except you, John, you were more dear to me than ever. It was...confusing, but I thought it was ... under control. Safe. Until we were out on a case – the one with the stuffed bunny. I ducked into a public bog...there were a couple blokes masturbating at the urinal, so I went into a stall. There was a glory hole. Someone put his cock through. I stood there, staring at it – it wasn't the first time something like that had happened, but I'd never thought twice about it before."

"You mean... you thought about wanking him? Or blowing him?"

"Not him. Of course not HIM, whoever he was. But I knew that if it were you in the next stall, I would be on my knees in a second. And I realized, I wished it were you. I wanted it to be you."

"You're a true romantic." John quipped.

Sherlock laughed. "When I left the toilets, you were right there. I WANTED you so much. I think I turned bright red."

"Oh, god, I remember! That's what that was about."

"After that, I had to be on my guard. You always said you weren't interested – I didn't want to drive you away. I didn't want to think about sex at all. In Baskerville, when I was exposed to the gas... I wasn't in control and it terrified me. I insulted you on purpose so I couldn't throw myself at you."

"I'm.... I'm crippled now." John said softly. "Maimed. I won't be the same. You'll feel differently."

"Don't be absurd." Sherlock said.

"I'm not..."

"You are. YOU will feel differently about yourself for a while, my feelings won't change. You are the love of my life, John. Deal with it."

"I can't even imagine having sex again."

"You'll heal. The bruises will fade, the swelling and pain will dissipate. The memory of what happened will grow dull and small."

"You'll get tired of waiting."

Sherlock scoffed. 

"And Shane..."

"Shane is good for you."

"I'm not good for him."

"Shane is.... lucky that you even looked at him..."

Now John scoffed at Sherlock. "Just because you're besotted, doesn't mean I'm any great prize."

"You're wrong. That's exactly what that means."

John laughed out loud. "You're bloody insane."

'Yes." 

Slowly John settled, relaxing into Sherlock's arms fully. "Did he... I know you said Moran didn't... the truth, Sherlock, what happened in there?"

"Different than what he did to you. We went to his bedroom – he had the skin of a tiger he'd killed there as a rug. We lay down on it... his touch made my skin crawl... he played games, seeing what I'd let him do... he undressed me and himself and pushed me onto my stomach. He was going to do it... I was trying to prepare, but it was all I could do to hold still... he was just getting started..."

"Why hold still? Why not try to get away?"

"That wasn't the deal. He could still have killed you – he was a sniper, you would never know what had hit you. As long as I held his attention, you would be safe. And I knew Dusette would come eventually. I didn't expect Shane. He saved us all."

"I think he just didn't want to come to hospital."

"No, don't minimize what he did. Moran would have killed Dusette. He would have ... played ...with me ... he would have broken me...and he would have killed me. Then he would have come for you. If Shane hadn't gone with Dusette, he would have ...I would be in hell right now. Instead, I'm in bed with you."

"Ironic that you owe it to Shane."

"I'll step aside when the time comes." Sherlock whispered.

"What if I don't want you to step aside?"

"You shouldn't rush to make big decisions. I can wait. And I would be happy just to be friends again, John."

"We are friends, Sherlock. You're my best friend."

Sherlock felt an anvil fall off his chest, an anvil he hadn't even known was there. His arms tightened around John's sturdy form and his lips found John's neck. The way he smelled – it was heady, it was a drug. It was the best drug. Heroin had nothing on this. Sherlock felt John shudder gently into sleep. He almost cried with the joy of it.

 

\---

 

The morgue was a busy place. Busy enough that Sherlock, in his borrowed lab coat, went, if not unnoticed, then unremarked. 

He easily found the register where corpses were signed in, and found Simon Fraser. His body was stored in one of the big coolers. When attendants brought another body in, Sherlock used the distraction to locate and enter the cooler.

There were seven corpses in the cooler. Sherlock unzipped the closest – an elderly woman. He zipped her bag back up and unzipped the next. The third bag contained Simon Fraser. Sherlock completely opened the body bag. Simon Fraser's body was nude and untouched – an autopsy had not yet been performed. He examined the body closely, Fraser appeared to have been physical fit and well-muscled. He had a bit of softness at the belly, but was otherwise trim. Sherlock checked the eyes for petechial hemorrhaging indicative of suffocation, but found nothing. He looked for any bruising – there was the expected discoloration on the inside of the left arm where the I.V. had been, but no other bruising. Sherlock searched for needle marks – as a user of heroin, Sherlock knew all the places to look: between the fingers and toes, behind the knees... then he found it, a single puncture under the scrotum with the barest of blue shading around it.

Sherlock photographed it with his phone. 

He needed a blood sample to test, but taking one would leave a mark that would be noted on the autopsy. He could go in through the I.V. port, but all the man's blood had pooled in the underside of his body. Sherlock rolled the corpse and stuck his needle in the buttock. He drew several vials and sealed them, stowing them in his pocket for later testing.

He returned Simon Fraser to his original position and zipped the body bag. No one paid him any attention as he left the morgue.

Sherlock considered going to the waiting room that Church had installed them in while John was in surgery. But Sherlock had spent all morning with Shane. Instead he went in search of Angus Church.

Last night, around midnight, Sherlock had been woken by a night nurse. "You can't sleep there." She said. "You can't get in bed with the patients."

"Obviously, I can." Sherlock had replied crankily. He didn't appreciate having been woken.

"No, sir, it's against the rules." The nurse was pretty, an English rose in her last bloom as middle age overtook her. She had ample breasts and the eyes of someone who had had too many disappointments.

"Bugger off." John growled.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Watson, it's against the rules."

"That's DOCTOR Watson to you." John said tersely. "And he's staying right where he is, so bugger off!"

"I'm sorry, but...."

"Look, they're chopping my hand off tomorrow. Leave us alone! Get out!" John didn't yell – he rarely yelled – but his intense, dangerous tone got his point across better than volume ever would.

The nurse turned on her heel and left.

"They're chopping my hand off." John repeated in a much smaller voice. A voice filled with pain.

"I know, my love." He smoothed John's hair, petting his head.

"That feels nice." John said, then began to cry. Sherlock could feel the great, gasping breaths shake his friend's body as his sorrow poured out.

He soothed John as best as he could, holding him, petting him, kissing his shaking neck and shoulders. He didn't say 'it will be ok,' because it wouldn't. He didn't say 'everything will work out,' because Sherlock didn't know if it would, or what that even meant. All he said was, "I love you. I love you, my darling John. I love you."

Eventually they slept.

Sherlock had gotten up early and dressed, he didn't want to be rousted again during morning rounds. He sat in the chair next to the bed deep in thought until John woke. He spotted John to the bog, noting that John seemed slightly clumsier this morning than he had been yesterday. He silently assisted with toothpaste and when John emerged ten minutes later, clutching his pajamas pants so they wouldn't fall down, he'd tied the drawstring and made sure John got safely back to bed without being solicitous in any way. John hated needing help, Sherlock certainly wasn't going to offer help John DIDN'T need.

Shane arrived at half seven with fresh bagels, coffee, John's laptop and a brand new iPhone that he unwrapped and presented to John.

"What's this?" John asked without touching it.

"I lost yours. Plug it in now – the cables are in the bag – and it'll be ready to go in an hour or so."

"I can't take this."

"Pay me back later." Shane said. "You need this now. Oh, I ran into Mrs. Hudson when I went by your flat for the laptop – she was worried about you, I told her you were here."

"Mrs. Hudson..." John hadn't thought about her or his job or anything but himself (and to a lesser extent Sherlock and Shane) since entering hospital.

"She's coming by later with biscuits."

Sherlock perked up. "Yeah, she makes those for him." John said pointing at Sherlock. "She knows I don't like sweets."

"Does she know you're back?" Shane asked. "I didn't say anything."

"No." Sherlock said. 

John gave him a look that spoke volumes, Shane watched their silent communication with furrowed brow. He didn't comment, instead he pulled his iPad out of the bag and without speaking set it up on the rolling table. He started a movie playing and sat down to watch. The three of them sipped coffee and watched Evil Dead II, the one where Ash cuts off his possessed hand and later replaces it with a chain saw. The film seemed to cheer John up. Sherlock approved.

Then John's surgeon and circulatory specialist came by. Sherlock retreated to the window as they talked with John. They tested his flesh and drew on his wrist with a black sharpie – the line between what John would keep and what he would lose. The fingers of that hand were gray and curling inward, useless. But John tried again and again to make them move. 

Sherlock watched and thought about their one night together, about John's hands on his body. He would never experience that again.

As the hour for his surgery grew near, John withdrew into a stormy silence. Neither Shane nor Sherlock tried to draw him out. They sat with him quietly until the time came. Shane kissed him and wished him luck. Sherlock just smiled at John briefly. "We'll be here when you wake up." He said.

Sherlock found Nurse Church in critical care. "I need to borrow a lab." He said, the test tubes of Simon Fraser's blood clinking in the pocket of his borrow lab coat.

"What am I? The hospital genie? Your key to the hospital? Take that coat off!"

"You KNOW something is off about Simon Fraser's death."

"The night shift registered a complaint about you." Angus Church whispered hotly. "You're going to get yourself banned if you keep this up. Is that what you want?"

Sherlock sighed and pulled out his phone. "I hate having to ask for favors." He mumbled as he texted Mycroft. "There. That's taken care of. Now, a lab."

Angus threw up his hands. "Third floor. Knock yourself out."

Sherlock grabbed the nurse's arm before he could walk away. "Any news?" He asked, his anxiety evident. "How much longer?"

"It's only been forty minutes." Angus said in a kinder tone. "Go confiscate someone's lab, you have a couple hours yet."

"Right. Good. Can you find out when the autopsy for Mr. Fraser will be performed?" Sherlock asked.

Angus sighed impatiently. "I DO have work – John might be my favorite patient, but there are eight others..."

"Eight? Aren't there nine other than John?"

"Mrs. Krazinsky died last night."

Sherlock frowned. "Last night? Tamara Krazinsky was in some sort of accident, was she not? Did she succumb to her injuries?" 

The nurse looked away.

"Was she on the mend? Was her death unexpected?"

"Yes." The syllable was quiet, almost not there, but Angus Church looked Sherlock in the eye without flinching. "The same staff was on last night as was on the night Mr. Fraser died."

"Can you get her chart?" Sherlock asked. "I need to see it."

"Yeah. Yes. Go check out the labs on the third floor..." The nurse visibly made a decision, his face becoming determined. "Ask for Peter Smythe. He's a friend, I'll let him know you're coming by. You're not his type, but he likes it if you flirt with him anyway."

Sherlock nodded, feeling the fierce excitement of A CASE growing in his chest. There was a murderer at this hospital – in this ward! – and Sherlock was going to uncover him.

 

\---

 

John woke slowly, becoming aware of the unfamiliar room around him, gradually remembering where he was and why. A profound depression settled on him, weighing him down despite the buoyancy of the opiates he could feel coursing through his body. 

He could still feel it, his left hand, feel it as if it were still there. John thought he was reasonably brave, he'd established that in Afghanistan for certain. But he didn't feel brave enough to look and see that the hand his senses insisted was just fine was, in fact, gone. 

Amputated.

Later people would come to talk to him about prosthetics and occupational therapy and the realities of his life from now on. His life as a cripple. John wasn’t sure he could listen. He might scream. Or he might just go to sleep.

No. He would look at them and nod politely. They were professionals, as he had been, he owed them his attention. Whether their words would stick to him, if they could penetrate the buzzing drone that fell like a velvet curtain over his brain, was questionable. But John would be brave and cordial to them. 

Suddenly he was nauseated – he barely had time to turn onto his side before vomiting. He knew it had been a mistake to have coffee this morning. 

A nurse appeared. “Not feeling so good?” She asked, cleaning up his vomit as John retched again and again. There was nothing left in his stomach, but he couldn’t stop retching. He retreated into himself as his body continued to convulse helplessly. 

A doctor appeared at some length. John’s retching had slowed, but not subsided. He heard her prescribe an anti-nausea medication and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the nurse inject it into his I.V. Relief was glacial, but eventually John’s stomach stopped heaving. 

He was wheeled to a room in Critical Care. A different room. Shane was ushered in carrying the overnight bag with John’s things – the laptop and new iPhone included. John remembered feeling put out this morning that Shane had so thoughtfully brought him a replacement for his lost phone. Put out and after he thought about it, grateful. Shane was, overall, an excellent boyfriend. 

He could remember the feelings, but he couldn’t access them. John didn’t care about the phone. He barely cared about Shane. 

“Hey, John, how are you feeling?” Shane asked softly. He pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat down. 

“Mm.” John said, unable to formulate anything more complicated. 

“Dr. Watson had a rough time in recovery.” The nurse supplied. “He’s probably not feeling too hot right now.” She set a bottle of ginger ale and a glass on the rolling table within John’s reach. “Do you want me to pour? No? Try to sleep.” She said and left.

John saw Shane’s eyes traveling to where his left hand used to be. John still hadn’t looked and he hated Shane for looking. He closed his eyes. He felt the prick of tears and hated Shane even more. John didn’t want to be seen right now. 

He turned away. He wished he could roll onto his side and curl up in the fetal position, but he didn’t want to move the limb. He didn’t want to know what it would feel like to clutch it to his chest. Not yet.

“John…” Shane started.

“Leave him alone.” Sherlock. John hadn’t heard him come in. He imagined the resentful looks they would be exchanging and felt exhausted by it. 

Shane didn’t reply. 

“I examined Simon Fraser’s body.” Sherlock announced to the room. “I found a needle mark where there shouldn’t have been one. I’ve been running tests on blood samples – trying to discover what was injected and if it caused his death.”

“You think he was… killed?” Shane asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock said with stunning certainty. “He was killed AND another patient in Critical Care died last night. Another patient that was recovering. I had a look at her charts, she was stable, her wounds weren’t life-threatening… yet she died.”

“You think they’re related?”

“Oh yes. I was able to examine her corpse as well and again found an errant needle stick. They were both killed, I just need to discover how. And by whom.”

“Who do you suspect?” John was surprised to realize that the words had come from his own mouth. 

“The night staff was the same. But I can’t rule out another patient or even a visitor.” Sherlock paused, perhaps waiting for John to comment. “There are three nurses and two assistants in this ward at night. There’s a janitor who comes through and cleans, and an undetermined number of doctors and attendants that MIGHT be here at some point each night. There are currently eight patients other than John, all but one were here the night Simon Fraser died. I’m assessing which are ambulatory enough to carry out the deed. All have visitors, five had overnight visitors both nights.”

“So that’s… ten to twenty suspects.” Shane said. “How do you narrow it down?” 

“John is in an unique position.” Sherlock said. “If we can assess what Simon Fraser and Tamara Krazinsky had in common that triggered their murders, John can affect the same symptoms.”

“You want to use John as bait.” Shane said flatly.

“Yes.” Sherlock said. There was a pregnant silence. John opened his eyes. Sherlock and Shane were looking at each other, silently communicating – what, John wasn’t sure. 

John cleared his throat. They both looked at him, Shane a bit guiltily, he thought. “I’m in.” He said. 

Shane nodded. “I’ve wanted to see Sherlock – see you both – work firsthand.” Shane began slowly. “Depending how this turns out, it could be an interesting short story. Maybe even a book. If that’s OK with you both, of course.”

Sherlock shrugged – as if he didn’t care either way. 

“That’s fine, Shane.” John supplied. “What do they have in common?” He asked Sherlock. He still wanted to roll into a ball and hide himself away from the world – and he still would – but he felt INTEREST in the case penetrate his shell. 

“I’m not certain.” Sherlock admitted. “Fraser was a physically fit male in his mid-fifties who had contracted pleurisy and pneumonia, he was recovering and was due to be moved out of critical care, Krazinsky was a physically fit female in her early thirties. She was in a high-speed bicycle accident and had compound rib fractures, a punctured lung and liver, a broken scapula and shoulder and extensive skin loss from contact with the pavement. Her lung and liver were healing well and working normally, she’d had surgery to remove bone fragments from the ribs, and was recovering well. The road rash would be uncomfortable, but it wasn’t infected. The scapula would heal on its own. None of her injuries were life-threatening at this point, she was due to be moved to another ward today.”

“So, both were relatively young and healthy, both were recovering and both were due to be moved out of critical care.” John said with a frown. “Don’t angels of death usually target people who are suffering? People with terminal illness or old age for whom death could be perceived a mercy? This doesn’t fit the profile.”

“This could simply be murder of opportunity.” Sherlock said. “Or they might have something else in common that we haven’t found yet.”

“Either way, John fits the profile.” Shane said. “Young, physically fit, recovering well.”

“Indeed. Perfect bait.”

Shane frowned at that. “We’ll have to leave him alone overnight – we need to find a way to protect him.”

“I can protect myself.” John announced testily. “I don’t need either of you to take care of me.”

“Of course not.” Sherlock said, unperturbed. “As long as the morphine doesn’t make you too sleepy – or affect you in other ways. How did you react to it after you were shot?”

John fumed. “I had hallucinations.” He admitted. “And I slept a lot.”

“We’ll see how it affects you this time. The dose is pretty low.” Sherlock said, examining John’s chart.

“I haven’t built up a resistance to opiates.” 

“Touché.” Sherlock replied, carelessly.

“OK, listen, I AM tired now.” John said. “Maybe you could both let me alone for a while.”

“We’ll be quiet.” Shane said. “Get some rest.”

“No, I mean I’d like you to leave. I don’t want you lurking around watching me sleep. It’s weird.”

“Oh…” Shane was taken aback. He opened his mouth to say more, but Sherlock interrupted.

“Fine. Do you want takeaway for dinner? Or anything from home?”

“I don’t care.” John said, exhaustion overcoming him.

“OK, Come on, Shane. Let’s go. We’ll see you later.” Sherlock held the door open for Shane and exited after him. 

John felt relieved to finally be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: John has a series of visitors.


	4. Nothing Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson comes to visit and does John a solid.

John woke to find Mrs. Hudson sitting at his bedside, quietly knitting. She set her task aside. “How are you feeling, love?” She asked.   
   
 John opened his mouth to answer, but found he had nothing to say.  
   
 “I know I fuss, but I worry about you. Especially since… well… you know.”  
   
“You were right to worry, I guess.” John said, relieved that her eyes didn’t wander to the space where his left hand should be.  
   
“I made biscuits… but then I remembered they were Sherlock’s favorite, not yours. So, I brought tea things. Would you like a cuppa?”  
   
John felt his spirits rise at the thought of a good cup of tea. “Mrs, Hudson, I would like nothing better.”  
   
She set about heating the water in a portable electric kettle she’d brought and spooning tea into her teapot. When the kettle boiled, she poured it into the pot and let it steep.  
   
“I thought I’d find Shane here.” She observed.  
   
“I sent him away.” John felt a little guilty.  
   
“I always loathed people hovering over me in hospital.” She said. “My husband hated that I didn’t want him. He didn’t even want to be there, but he wanted ME to want him there.” She shook her head. “Sometimes it’s better to be alone.”  
   
“Yeah.”  
   
“Shane will be fine. He’s much more thoughtful than my husband was.”  
   
“Mm. What time is it?”  
   
“Half five. Visiting hours are until 8 pm, but throw me out whenever you get tired of me, dear.”  
   
John smiled. It felt strange on his face, but real. “I will.” He said.  
   
She poured the tea into cups. “I brought milk – you should do it, I’m terrible at ‘mother.’”  
   
John felt his smile grow. He picked up the pint carton of milk and poured the right amount into his tea and stirred it. It was hot, but he sipped anyway. It was heaven.  
   
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” He said. “I might even feel human again after a cup of tea.”  
   
“There’s nothing like a good cup of tea.” She said. “John… what happened? You don’t have to say if you don’t want to…”  
   
“It’s a long story. But first, I have to tell you something.”  
   
“What is it, dear?”  
   
“Sherlock. He’s alive.” He watched her face – the incredulity, the disbelief, the pity that John was so deluded resolving into a fierce joy.  
   
“I knew it!” She said. “Well, I didn’t know, but I hoped. Oh, how I hoped!”  
   
“It’s taken a while to forgive him for leaving like that. Letting me – letting us all – think him dead. Letting us mourn.”  
   
“That wasn’t very nice of him.”  
   
“No.”  
   
“But what about Shane? John, what are you going to do?”  
   
“What do you mean… Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and I are not a couple. We were never a couple.”  
   
“Whatever you say, dear.”  
   
“Mrs. Hudson!”  
   
“They must have met – Shane and Sherlock. I can’t imagine Sherlock staying away when you’re in hospital.”  
   
“Yes, of course they’ve met.”  
   
“How do they get on?”  
   
“How does Sherlock get on with anyone?”  
   
“Generally better than he gets on with someone you’re seeing.”  
   
That was true. John couldn’t refute it. “It’s complicated.” He mumbled.  
   
“I imagine it is. Finish your tea, dear.”  
   
John reached for his cup and managed to upset the table, splashing hot tea from his cup on the bed and tipping Mrs. Hudson’s teapot. John lunged for it, intending to catch it, with both hands…  
   
…he saw the bandaged stump and his mind shut down. But he was still instinctively moving to catch the teapot. His stump bumped against it and the pain! John yelped – loudly. The teapot fell off the table onto the bed, leaking hot tea onto his legs through the blanket. But he barely felt it. The pain was too intense, both from the knock and from the sight of the thing.  
   
Vaguely, he saw Mrs. Hudson fussing over him, picking up her teapot, moving the rolling table away from the bed, calling for assistance…  
   
At his yell, Sherlock had plunged into the room. He must have been close, loitering in the hall outside John’s room. He looked around wildly for what had caused John’s distress.  
   
Mrs. Hudson intervened, both with Sherlock and with the nurse who appeared. They would have to change the sheets, maybe even the bed.  
   
John threw back the blankets and stood up, not caring that the hospital gown gaped open in the back. He grabbed the overnight bag and stalked into the toilet, shutting the door firmly behind him. He saw himself in the mirror – a haggard middle-aged man whose ginger hair was graying rapidly, with dark circles under angry eyes. He tore off the gown. The bruises covering his body were even more lurid now, greens, yellows, purples, pinks, blues and blacks swirling across his skin. It was alien, the body he saw in the mirror, too thin and too strange to be his own.  
   
There was a compression bandage on his left arm up to his elbow, but John could see the new shape of his limb. It was awkwardly short now, and pointed – the surgeon had reshaped the stump so John could use a prosthetic. He bent his arm experimentally. His forearm rose and fell, but John still couldn’t quite convince himself it was his.  
   
He realized his right arm was bleeding – the I.V. had come out when he’d fled to the bog. John sighed and leaned tiredly against the door.  
   
Someone knocked lightly. “Do you need help in there?” It wasn’t Sherlock, thank god.  
   
“No.” John said tightly. “No, I don’t need help.”  
   
“OK. Good. Push the call button when you’re ready and someone will help you with your I.V.”  
   
“Yes. Fine.” He heard the nurse retreat.  
   
When the sounds from his bedroom ceased, John opened the overnight bag and rooted around. There were pajama pants with an elastic waist. Thank god! He put them on. Then he carefully donned a t-shirt that was so soft, it felt like silk against his ravaged skin. He recognized neither garment – Shane or Sherlock, or possibly both, had anticipated his need for clothing he could put on by himself and provided them.  
   
John felt the tears spilling down his face. He didn’t deserve either of these men. They were so good to him and in return John was a complete wanker. He sat down on the toilet and hugged himself, huddling down self-protectively, his stump carefully cradled in his right hand, and cried.  
   
Some time later, the tears had stopped and his stump began to throb. He stood, it took a moment to get his bearings, to feel steady on his feet – he still felt the effects of the compromised circulation in his left leg. He carefully walked back to his bed and lay down. He pressed the call button for a nurse.  
   
Angus came. John almost cried in relief.  
   
“Hullo, mate.” The burly nurse examined John’s right arm. “You did a number on your vein.” He said. “I don’t want to put the line in your hand if we can avoid it, but finding another vein in your elbow is going to hurt.”  
   
“It’s fine. Get on with it.” It DID hurt. But John submitted stoically.    
   
“You thinking about banning visitors yet?” Angus asked.

Good question. It was very tempting – let the hospital tell his friends that they couldn’t see him. John wouldn’t have to watch people look at the space where his hand used to be, wouldn't have to see the disappointment in Shane's eyes, or how Sherlock’s face fell every time he smiled at Shane... but no, he wanted to know about Sherlock's murderer, he wanted to help.

And they had brought him the soft pajamas... that almost made him tear up again.

"Not seriously." John said. 

"It can be overwhelming to have everyone focused on you all the time."

"I hate it. It's suffocating. Sherlock is so self-centered, it's not that bad... but Shane... what?"

Angus was laughing. "Sherlock is more focused on you than anyone. He's obsessed – no, he's devoted to you. If he seems self-centered, it's because he's always trying to hide his feelings. Seems like he’s been doing that for a long time."

John was stunned. Sherlock had confessed as much – written how he loved John in the letter he'd handed to him when he reappeared after two years of being 'dead.' But devoted? To John? The words made sense, but somehow John had never quite realized how fully Sherlock loved him.   
   
HAD loved him. Everything was different now. Whether Sherlock knew it yet or not.  
   
“Sherlock doesn’t really have anyone else.” John told Angus. “He’s… challenging. Most people don’t take to him. That’s all it is.”  
   
 “If you say so.”  
   
“And Shane is… Shane is great. Really great…” John shook himself.  “What am I saying? Neither of them want to be saddled with me now. I SHOULD ban them, I’d be doing them a favor.”  
   
“I’m going to interrupt your pity party right now.” Angus said. “You’ve lost a hand – that’s devastating. It’s going to take time for you to adjust, to accept. But it doesn’t change you in their eyes. You’re still the man they love – that your friends and family love. They WANT to be here for you. They want to do whatever they can help you.”  
   
“I don’t NEED any help.” John spat the word like a curse.  
   
“Yeah, you do, John. Not with tying your shoes or buttoning your shirt – you will be just as independent as you ever were. But you need your mates. That’s the only way you get through this, innit.”  
   
 “They’re smothering.”     
   
“So set some boundaries.”  
   
“Sherlock’s not good with boundaries.”  
   
“Any other excuses?”  
   
“No.” John finally started feel the effects of the morphine, his pain drifting away… along with his resolve. “Are they still here?”  
   
“The teapot lady left, but both of your boyfriends are here. Please get them out of my hallway, John, they’re annoying everyone.”  
   
“Can you ask Shane to come in?”  
   
“Sure.” The nurse put his hand on John’s shoulder. “I know this bloody well sucks, but you are going to be OK.”

Easy for him to say, John thought. He had two hands.  
   
Shane smiled as he walked into the room, looking happy just to see John. It warmed him and he smiled back. Shane ignored the chair and sat on the bed, on John’s right side. He touched John’s face and leaned in and kissed him. It was a good kiss, and John’s morphine high made it incredibly, impossibly sweet.   
   
John let the kiss end. Shane sat back and John took his hand. “I know this isn’t what you signed up for.” He said. “I don’t want you to feel like you HAVE to be here. You don’t.”  
   
“I know, John. I want to be here with you.”  
   
John looked away. “I’m just saying, you don’t HAVE to. You don’t owe me anything.”  
   
“Do you want me to go?” Shane asked. He didn’t look upset or disappointed. Had John imagined that earlier?  
   
“No… I’m just feeling… it’s all too much – everyone here, staring at me. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know what to do.”  
   
“You don’t have to do anything. Just get better.”  
   
“Shane, I’m never going to ‘get better.’”  
   
“You’re going to heal.” Shane squeezed his hand. “John, I can’t even imagine how you must feel… but when I said ‘I love you,’ I meant it. I love you, John. This doesn’t matter to me. YOU matter to me.”  
   
“I don’t even know what to do with that right now.”  
   
“You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to tell me that you love me. You don’t have to be nice and polite and accommodating. You don’t have to choose between Sherlock and me. All you have to do is heal.”  
   
“Choose?”  
   
“If both of us being here is too much, it’s OK to send me away.” Shane said, unperturbed. “Or send him away. Or tell us both to leave. Or we can all be here together. Whatever you need.”  
   
“Jesus, Shane…”  
   
“Listen… a while ago, a friend of mine got cancer. He had a partner – they’d been together for years, shared a flat, shared everything. But when he got sick, my friend wanted to be alone. He broke up with his partner, asked him to move out. Upset their entire life. I thought his partner would be …devastated. But he wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t about how much my friend did or didn’t love him, it was about the cancer. He needed to be alone to deal with it. He moved out, but he made sure my friend knew he could call anytime if he ever needed anything, big or small.   
   
“And when my friend went into remission, when the cancer was gone and his prognosis was sunny, they got back together. His partner had stood by him the entire time. It wasn’t easy. It was wrenching to let go. But he loved him enough to do it.”  
   
“Shane…” John saw that Shane meant what he said. Or thought he did. “Your friend is a dick.”  
   
Shane laughed. “Maybe.” He said. “If this had happened to me instead, what would you do?”  
   
“Oh, I’d dump you immediately.”   
   
“Sure, you would.”   
   
 “I SHOULD dump you.” John said, serious again. “I should tell you to go away and forget about me.”  
   
“And let Sherlock take care of you? He can’t even remember to order samosas.” Shane said lightly.   
   
John bristled. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”   
   
“Yes, you do. Not because of this.” Shane gestured at John’s left arm. “We all need someone.”  
   
John shook his head. “I… I can’t take care of you now, Shane. I can’t.”  
   
“Shh, John, it’s OK. You don’t have to worry about me right now. Or Sherlock. You don’t have to worry about hurting our feelings. I know you love him. That’s OK. He knows that I’m important to you too. This isn’t a competition. All you have to do is tell us what you need – and if what you need is for one or both of us to scram, it’s OK.”  
   
John felt overwhelmed again, felt the tears threaten to overspill his eyelids. “Is it? Shane, I don’t want to lose you…” A tear got loose and John wiped at it angrily. “But I don’t expect you to want me now.” John couldn’t bring himself to wave his stump in Shane’s face, he kept his left arm firmly under the blankets. “It would be easier if you just left. The longer you stay, the harder it will be …”  
   
“I’m. Not. Leaving. You.” Shane said firmly. “If you want me gone, you’ll have to break up with me. And don’t bother because I won’t believe you.” Shane kissed him again and John wrapped his arm around his lover and pulled him close – feeling again the heat and vitality that had attracted him to the man.   
   
“Oh, Shane…” John murmured.   
   
“It’s OK.” Shane whispered in his ear, nuzzling his neck.  
   
“I don’t know what to do…”  
   
“I know.” Shane rocked John gently, trying to sooth him.  
   
“I hate this.”  
   
“I know.”  
   
John let himself drift in Shane’s arms, let himself believe – in this morphine-addled moment – that being crippled, maimed, wouldn’t change anything between them. Even though it changed everything.  
   
Eventually Shane pulled back a little. “Are you hungry?” He asked. “You haven’t eaten much in days.”  
   
John smiled – it felt weak and trembling. “Let’s have Sherlock order takeaway.” He said. Maybe he needed calories. Maybe food would make him feel better. “Thai.”  
   
Shane stayed with him while Sherlock went to get the takeaway. John moved as far as he could to the left side of the bed without disturbing his stump and pulled Shane down to lie next to him. Shane wrapped his arms around him and John rested his head on Shane’s narrow chest. This man was his lover, he had desired his body, fucked him… John couldn’t feel anything remotely sexual right now. But it felt lovely to be held.  
   
Sherlock arrived with the food a few minutes before eight. Shane carefully got out of bed and helped Sherlock set up the rolling table wile John adjusted the bed and adjusted himself in the bed.   
   
“Thanks for getting this.” John said to Sherlock. He had watched Sherlock’s expression when he came in and saw John cuddling with Shane. It wasn’t what John expected, Sherlock didn’t seem upset or jealous or angry with Shane. He looked… grateful. He had been happy that John was comforted.   
   
More probably he was grateful that Shane was stepping up so John wouldn’t be so devastated when Sherlock disappeared again. Sherlock was relieved he wouldn’t be saddled with John much longer. That thought killed his appetite, such as it was, and he turned away.   
   
“What?” Sherlock asked, concerned. “What is it, John?”  
   
Shane looked up, took in the scene. “He’s convinced himself we’re going to abandon him.” Shane told Sherlock. “That everything is different now.”  
   
“Everything IS different now.” John said.   
   
“Not everything.” Sherlock replied. “You’re still an idiot.”   
   
Sherlock put the carton of noodles he was opening down and stepped close to John. Close enough that their foreheads almost touched, John could feel the tickle of Sherlock’s dark curls. Sherlock’s big hand covered John’s cheek and his lips pressed against John’s. John felt inhibited, kissing in front of Shane, but he let Sherlock kiss his mouth and his jaw and his neck… then pushed him away, stealing a guilty glance at Shane.   
   
Shane was busy setting out plates and chopsticks, an indulgent smile on his lips.   
   
“It’s OK.” Sherlock told him. “We talked, Shane and I, and we came to an agreement.”  
   
“Whatever makes you feel happy and loved – and safe…” Shane said. “… is a good thing, no matter what.”  
   
“It doesn’t matter if it’s me or him. Or me AND him.” Sherlock added. “The only thing that matters right now is you.”  
   
“That’s…. crazy!” John spluttered.  
   
“As soon as you’re completely recovered, we’ll go back to hating each other.” Shane said.   
   
“I thought we agreed on a death match.” Sherlock said.  
   
“Mm. Right.” Shane handed John the carton of Pad Thai. “Don’t take it all, I want some.” He said.  
   
John just stared at him. He looked serious. They both did. John looked down at the carton of Pad Thai. His reviving mood sank again. How was he supposed to take a portion of the bloody Pad Thai with only one hand!?  
   
He glanced up. Neither of his friends offered to help him. Shane was busy spooning rice onto his plate while Sherlock had his nose in the green curry.  
   
John grinned and worked it out on his own.  
   
   
\--  
   
   
That night, they both stayed over, the plans to use John as bait for the ‘angel of mercy’ forgotten. Shane climbed into the bed with him and Sherlock stretched out on the recliner on the opposite side, his hand tangled in John’s hair, petting his head until John drifted off to sleep.  
   
John dreamt that they lived together, the three of them, in the Baker St. flat, that he slept between them every night, worrying... worrying... wondering if they resented him, the cripple. 

 

Until he killed one of them with his chainsaw hand – he hadn’t meant to, it just happened. The other one cleaned up the mess and told John it was OK, as long as he was happy, and smiled at him indulgently.  
   
John tried to remove the chainsaw, but he sawed off his other hand instead. He looked at his two stumps in dismay and loathing. How would he get along now? How would he eat? How would he dress himself? He was as helpless as an infant. He was swaddled in the softest pajamas and fed one spoonful at a time. When he had to piss, someone had to hold his cock, and when he shit, they had to wipe his arse. 

He couldn’t even kill himself without hands to open the bottle of pills or pick up a razor to open a vein, or pick up a gun…  
   
John couldn’t stand it. He ran away. He taught himself to eat with his feet, holding a spoon between his toes and folding himself in half to get it in his mouth. He slept rough, huddling in doorways or under bridges. He couldn't be robbed – he had nothing. He was the handless man. The helpless man. The hopeless man.

John's spirit drifted free of his lonely, unloved, deformed body. He floated, but he still felt heavy. Too heavy. John started to cry.

But the murderer … the murderer chased after John wherever he ran. “You were supposed to be my bait!” he wailed, brandishing a hypodermic. "You were supposed to be mine!"  
   
Where was Sherlock? John was bait, Sherlock was supposed to be hidden nearby… but Sherlock was dead. John felt the familiar pull, dragging his spirits down, depressing him. Nothing was bright anymore. Nothing mattered.   
   
Nothing mattered.   
   
Nothing  
   
Mattered  
   
The cold ocean lapped over his toes… he should wade out into its depths… let it embrace him...  
   
John woke with a start, sitting up abruptly. He was out of breath.  
   
Shane slept, an arm loosely around John’s waist. Sherlock was snoring lightly, just a roughness on each exhale.   
   
Something moved.   
   
“Who’s there?” John asked.   
   
A nurse moved into the moonlight cast through the window. “Just me, dear.” She said.   
   
“What’s your name?” John demanded.  
   
“Measing.” The woman said. “Anne Measing.”  
   
“Sorry, you startled me, Nurse Measing.” John realized his feet were uncovered (wading into the cold depths...) and reached to pull the blankets over them. The nurse watched him. “What do you need?”  
   
“Just checking in on you, Dr. Watson. I wanted to see how you were feeling after your surgery.”   
   
“I’m fine.” John said tightly, pulling the covers over his left arm.   
   
“You have two tonight.” She said.   
   
“Two?”  
   
“Bedmates. They really aren’t supposed to be in the hospital beds. You need the time and space to heal.”  
   
“I’m fine.” John repeated. “They’re fine.”  
   
“I guess it’s ok.” She said. “A little… companionship… might cheer you up. After your loss.”

"What the hell are you talking about!?"

"Your hand. That's a profound loss."

John cleared his throat, taking a second to hold his temper. "What's your point?"

"Just observing." She said. "Last night the other one was in your bed."

"That's not your business."

“Everything on this ward is my business.” She said. “Whilst I commend your stamina, Dr. Watson, you've been badly injured. It might be time to take a few days off the shagging, use that energy to heal."

"Get out." John said, his voice low and dangerous. "Now."

She nodded. "Good night."

After the door shut behind her, John lay back down. "You're awake." He said. 

"Yes." John had noticed the change in Sherlock's breathing during the conversation with the nurse.

"How much of that did you hear?"

"I woke when you asked who was in the room." Sherlock said. "What woke you?"

"I think she was touching my feet. They were uncovered... cold..." John shook off the memory of the strange dream, wading out into the cold, cold ocean... "If she's the murderer, she's rather tipped her hand."

"No one knows we're looking for a murderer – just the three of us and your friend Angus." Sherlock said. "We've kept it quiet."

"The creepy night nurse has shot to the top of my suspect list."

"Indeed. Anne Measing, age 43. Unmarried. She’s been employed at this hospital for almost two years but is new to Critical Care. Probably not a coincidence." 

John yawned hugely. "Sorry, it's the morphine. It gives me strange dreams too."

"Go back to sleep." Sherlock said. "We'll investigate Nurse Measing in the morning." He stroked John's hair soothingly.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"This...'agreement' you made with Shane – are you really ok with it?"

"Yes." Sherlock sounded certain.

"How did you... how did it happen?"

"Actually, it was Mrs. Hudson."

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes. It was ... wonderful... to see her again. I'd missed YOU so much, I hadn't thought about Mrs. Hudson – or Lestrade, or Molly. But I've missed everyone. Even Mycroft to a certain extent.

"In any case, we sat down together and Shane was there – she likes him quite a bit, you know. She thinks he's good for you." Sherlock paused for a moment, choosing his next words. "We'd been blaming each other – Shane and I – for what happened to you."

"What? Why!? It wasn't your fault. Either of you."

"Shane blamed me for the same reason I blamed myself – if I hadn't dragged you into my investigations, if I'd stayed away...."

"That's ridiculous. You didn't 'drag me' into anything. I wanted – I WANT to do it!" John was indignant. "No one could predict what Moriarty would do, let alone Moran!" 

"That's what Mrs. Hudson said. Rather sternly, I might add." Sherlock said.

"But why would you blame Shane?"

Sherlock sighed. "He couldn't get in touch with you all day!" Sherlock said. "But he didn't wonder why, he didn't look for you until you missed dinner. And even then he didn't go to Baker Street right away – he almost didn't go at all! And when he DID know you'd been kidnapped, he waited to contact me! It was another hour! That could have been the difference between..."

John heard the unspoken words: the difference between keeping and losing your hand. "Why?" John asked quietly, his voice tight. "Why didn't he?"

"He didn't know how." Sherlock explained. "Until he remembered that I had texted you. Then it took a while for him to remember your passcode."

John nodded slowly, accepting this.

"He really didn't appreciate the urgency...." Sherlock said. "Neither did I – it was a diabolical plan, tying you up that way. Moran didn't have to do anything. The longer he left you, the worse the injuries until finally you would have died... it was all a matter of time..."

“There’s no one to blame but Moran.” John said.

“Yes.” Sherlock agreed. “Mrs. Hudson was annoyingly adamant that Shane and I had to get along – and not just the grudging truce we’d called.” Sherlock caressed John’s cheek. “I'm not a complete idiot, I see that Shane gives you things that I'm... singularly unequipped to give you. Or anyone. But I give you things that no one else can! We agreed that forcing you to choose one or the other was stupid – a false dichotomy. So, we aren’t going to worry about it.”

“That’s… I don’t know what to think about this.”

John saw Sherlock shrug, the moonlight outlining his angular form. “I … I don’t either.”

“Mm.” John felt the spark of excitement the visit from the night nurse had engendered begin to fade. He was starting to feel heavy again, as if amputating his hand had added ten stone to his body. This strange agreement between Shane and Sherlock – it was convenient not to have to think about hurting someone’s feelings, not to have to think about what he was going to do with the two men he loved…but really, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. 

That, John realized, might do more to drive them away than his new handicap. He felt tears welling again and closed his eyes. 

“You’re too thin, John.” Sherlock said quietly. “You need to eat more.”

“Isn’t it my job to tell YOU to eat more?” John asked.

“I can’t lose you, John.” Sherlock whispered. “Not again.”

“They don’t let patients starve to death in hospital.”

“It’s not that… you’re drifting away from… from life. That’s not acceptable.”

“I told you everything would be different now.”

“I don’t accept that.”

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Please, John…”

“Just… leave it. It doesn’t matter.”

“John…”

“It doesn’t matter. Go to sleep.” John turned his head away from Sherlock and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, John tries out a prosthesis.


	5. A Startling Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life...

"I'm worried about him." Shane said. "Has he ever been this depressed before?"

"No." Sherlock said. He was worried about John too. A week and a half after the amputation, John had settled into an uneasy routine of picking over meals, endless therapy sessions, grimly cleaning and bandaging his stump and monosyllabic conversations over takeaway each evening. Then Shane or Sherlock – on alternate nights – slept next to John who mostly lay there pretending to be asleep.

"What do we do?" Shane had been with John overnight and looked like he'd barely slept himself. 

"I don't know." John had been depressed when they had met, but working on Sherlock's cases together had pulled him out of it almost immediately. (Laughing together in the front hall that first night...) "The investigation is the only thing that interests him at all. We need another murder."

"There must be a way to help him without someone else having to die." Shane said pragmatically. "You're going with him to see Bob today? Maybe he has some insight."

"Why do I have to meet Bob?! That's more up YOUR street."

Shane laughed at Sherlock's fussing. "Are you saying I need a psychiatrist more than you? No, I'm joking. You'll have to ask Bob why he wants you at John's session – maybe he's a fan. Maybe he wants to see for himself that you're alive."

Sherlock shuddered dramatically.

"Are you moved in yet?"

"I'm still trying to clear out the upstairs bedroom, but yes, I'm staying there. You're... comfortable... with John and me living together?"

"Someone needs to be with him until his depression lifts – I can't be there all the time."

Sherlock didn't ask the question he really wanted answered: what about his relationship with John? What about sex? Not that John was in any state for it, but eventually... He nodded at Shane, the boyfriend. John's boyfriend, who had the power to banish Sherlock from the Baker Street flat just as he had had the power to convince John that Sherlock should live there again. For a moment Sherlock felt the depths of his own desperation – that he'd fled and thrown away his chance to be John's lover, his boyfriend, his partner, his one and only... he felt the siren call of heroin, the first time since John had been kidnapped. It would be so lovely to forget, to let his troubles float away, to have that unshakeable sense of well-being flowing through his veins...

"Are you ok?" Shane asked.

"Just wool gathering." Sherlock shook off the dark mood and told himself again that sharing John with this other man was better than losing John altogether. 

"Don't forget that the prosthetist is coming today – after John's physical therapy."

"Mm." Sherlock remembered the disastrous first meeting with the prosthetist – it had pushed an already depressed John over the edge into utter despair.

“This Bebionic hand has fourteen different grip patterns and hand positions.” Shane had told John before the prosthetist arrived. “But the iLimb Quantum hand changes grips with simple gestures. What do you think…”

“Which gives the best hand jobs?” John asked. “That’s the one.”

“Be serious.”

How could I possibly know until I see them?” Shane had been researching high tech prosthetics for days. John wouldn't take them seriously because of the cost – Sherlock didn't think John knew how ridiculously wealthy Shane was. Not that John would have an easy time accepting such a gift regardless.

“We can ask Jo what she thinks.” Shane prodded.

“If there’s time.” John had said, smiling a little. Sherlock remembered being envious that one of John's rare smiles was bestowed on Shane.

“Fine, I’ll shut up.”

“Thank you.”

Jo had brought a standard body powered hook prosthetic for John to see. She had demonstrated how it worked then asked if he wanted to try it. "Just for a few minutes." She'd said. "When you've had more time to heal, I'll give you one to practice with every day.

Then she rolled a thick sock on John’s stump and showed him how to don the prosthetic. When he moved his arm a certain way, it triggered a cable to pull a lever that opened the hook into two hook-shaped pincers. John practiced opening and closing the pincers. It wasn't long before Sherlock saw him grimace.

"Is it hurting you, John?" Sherlock had asked and Jo had descended immediately and helped John to take it off.

“You did great, John. How did it feel?" She asked.

“Sweaty.” John had replied.

Jo had chuckled like John had told a joke. “We’ll fit you for a custom one when you’ve completely healed. You can start practicing with a loaner in about a week. Don't wear it too long at first. You don’t want to aggravate the wound. How is it healing?”

“Fine.” John said.

“Depending on your job or sports you enjoy, we can fit you with a task specific prosthetic – one that will hold a racquet, or grip handlebars, for example. What do you do, John?”

“I'm a trauma surgeon.” John said in a voice devoid of emotion. “Do you have a prosthetic for that?”

Jo was flustered for a moment but quickly regained composure. “This is a big change." She had told him. "It isn’t easy.”

John hadn't answered and she'd left soon after. John had been quiet the rest of the day and hadn't joked or smiled since.

Sherlock caught sight of Angus – he should have something that would snag John's interest, at least for a time. He walked away from Shane towards the nurse. 

"Ok, bye." Shane called, amused. Sherlock ignored him.

"Do you have them?" He demanded when he reached the burly nurse. 

Angus gave him an irritated look. "Why yes, I AM doing well today. Thank you for asking." He said.

"Do you have them!?" Sherlock repeated impatiently.

Angus sighed. "Yes, but they won't tell you anything."

"Sometimes what isn't there is eloquent."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't know, but they'll give John something to focus on."

"Oh! Right." The nurse pulled two folders out of a drawer and handed them to Sherlock surreptitiously. "I hear he's doing great in O.T. and P.T. – Antoinette says he's her best patient."

"He's a doctor, he knows how to clean a wound."

"He knows how to take a compliment too." Angus snapped. Then he softened. "I know it's frustrating, but John's depression is normal under the circumstance."

Sherlock nodded and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "He's not himself at all. I'm worried."

"Just stick by him, that's what he needs."

"Of course." Sherlock looked at the folders. "Your friend, Peter, did he rerun my tests? Are his findings in here as well?"

Angus smirked. "He wants to give them to you in person – you might be his type after all."

"Charming." Sherlock groaned, in no mood to flirt for favors. 

"He could help you blow off a little steam – relax a bit." Angus said with a lewd gesture. Sherlock glowered at the burly nurse. "He's not your type? Is he too tall? Too good-looking?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't have a 'type.' As far as he was concerned, there was John and there was every one else.

"Go." Angus said. "If you hurry you'll be back by the time John's finished with occupational therapy."

Sherlock scowled at the thought of John's relentlessly positive occupational therapist, Phil. While he understood the logic behind focusing on the things John COULD do rather than on what he couldn't, it rankled to see John treated like a kindergartner getting a gold star. Sherlock couldn't understand why John hadn't punched the nob yet.

But John gritted his teeth and applied himself to the lessons, learning how to buckle a belt, put toothpaste on a toothbrush, open bottles of pills and do every other banal task one-handed with an occasional assist from the teeth. He was unfailingly polite and grimly attentive, but John never smiled.

Sherlock gritted his own teeth and went to meet Peter Smythe in the lab.

 

\---

 

That afternoon Sherlock knew John had physical therapy. His therapist, Antoinette, had instructed him how to care for his stump, how to clean and bandage it. How to reduce swelling. During the appointment, she would massage his arm and shoulder first, then put him through strengthening exercises for his left arm – couldn’t let it atrophy. She always wanted to know about his pain and tried to help him manage it. 

Sherlock approved of her no-nonsense approach – and that she credited John with having the knowledge and experience a military doctor would have. She had asked how he would care for the wound, starting a conversation between equals, one in which she learned some things from him as well as vice versa. That did more for John's self-esteem than all of Phil's gold stars.

Antoinette also spent time massaging John's left leg. The circulation in that leg had been compromised, not nearly to the extent of his left hand, but enough that John suffered terrible cramps and when he was tired, he limped. 

The leg wouldn't get better. And it could get worse, it would be prone to varicose veins and deep vein thrombosis. John would have to manage it for the rest of his life. 

For all that, John was still beautiful. When Sherlock went through into the psychiatrist's office for their appointment, he found John standing in the sunlight. His hair shone orange and silver, and his whole form was backlit with a bright halo. He stepped forward to greet Sherlock, something akin to welcome on his expressive face, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile with the simple joy of being with John.

His bruises were fading, the finger marks on his neck now a dull green. And though he was thin and seemed weary, John looked healthy – and reassuringly normal – in jeans and a maroon jumper over a plaid shirt. 

John introduced Sherlock to the psychiatrist, Bob.

"Thank you for coming today, Mr. Holmes." Bob said as they shook hands.

"Sherlock, please." He read the man cursorily – his casual, yet expensive cashmere polo with wafer crumbs on the lapel, the crisp crease of his trousers, the careless way his hair was groomed – or rather not groomed – into an appealing suggestion of bedhead, his well-muscled arms contrasting with his middle-aged paunch, and the well-defined laugh lines around his eyes... this was an easygoing man happy with his life. He was happy with his wife (a class-conscious neat-freak who bought his clothes for him), and his family, and he loved his job. He eschewed pretension, not even calling himself 'Doctor Bob,' just 'Bob.' 

Tragedy had touched him personally, long ago, and since then he tried to help others through theirs. And he had a small yellow dog.

Bob smiled. "Sherlock. Sit , please."

Sherlock sat next to John on the couch. Now he would find out why he was here.

Or would he? Bob apparently had other things on his agenda first.

“How are you feeling, John?” Bob asked.

“The same.”

Bob scribbled in his notepad. “It can take a while for the medication to take effect. It’s cumulative.” Sherlock had seen John dutifully swallowing the antidepressants that Bob had prescribed each morning. "As you know."

“Yes. You’ve said.”

“I can up the dose. But I think we should wait a few more days.”

“Fine.”

“Have you thought at all about a support group? Talking with other people in similar situations can be very helpful.”

“Right. Yeah." John sounded less than enthusiastic. "Phil says there’s a ‘Living with Limb Loss’ group here. I guess I can check it out."

“Yes, that would be good. I was also thinking along the lines of a ‘survivors of torture’ group.”

John looked up, mildly surprised. “Do I even qualify?”

“You were tortured. You survived.”

“In a manner of speaking.” John muttered. “Ignore that. Of course, you’re right.”

"I have information about a group I think would be a good fit, I'll have Nancy give it to you before you go." Now Bob looked at Sherlock. "Ok, John?" He asked.

"Yes." 

"Sherlock, John has identified you as his main source of personal support." Bob said.

"Me?" It was Sherlock's turn to be surprised. He looked to John for an explanation, but John was studiously looking away from both Sherlock and the psychiatrist.

"Yes." Bob affirmed. "He says that you are his best friend and that you will be living together when he goes home from hospital – that you lived together for several years previously and know each other well."

Sherlock continued to look to John, but he answered Bob. "Yes, that's right."

"The problem, to state it baldly, is that John doesn't trust you." Bob's eyes were serious but kind. "He says that you left him and let him believe that you were dead for almost two years. That was a very difficult time for him. He has forgiven you, he understands why you did it, but he also thinks you could do it or something like it again. He doesn't feel that he can depend on you."

Sherlock stared at John who stared at his shoes. "John." he said quietly. "Can't we talk about this on our own?"

"John doesn't feel able to do that."

"He's never had a problem telling me to go to hell before." Sherlock snapped at Bob.

"Oh, he's perfectly able to tell you to go to hell – he WILL tell you to go to hell. John's depression is very likely to cause him to try to isolate himself. He will use his mistrust and your guilt as a wedge to drive you away. But you can't let him."

Sherlock examined John again, the heaviness of his spirit was evident in the very things Sherlock had overlooked earlier – the way his clothes hung on him, too big for his newly thin frame. For that, he didn't look delicate, his inherent sturdiness hid the alarming weight loss somewhat. The grayness of his pinched face, the dark smudges under his eyes, the listlessness. It reminded Sherlock of something...someone he'd seen recently... something important...

"Sherlock?" It was Bob. "John is depending on you. Be honest, is it possible that you'll abandon him again?"

"Abandon? No. I never want to live without him again."

"You seem very certain."

"I am." He examined Bob again. "As certain as I am that your wife knows about your mistress."

"What...!?" Bob looked shocked and guilty.

"Sherlock, stop it!" John finally looked at him, his eyes blazing with anger. "I'm sorry, Bob. Ignore him."

To his credit, Bob had already regained his composure. He nodded. "Tell him, John."

John took a breath, his anger fading back to listlessness. "Sherlock, you have the power to hurt me. Hurt me more than I can stand. If I let you back into my life, I'm exposing myself to the possibility of being hurt again."

"John, I won't..."

John cut him off. "Saying it doesn't make it true." He said. "I have to believe it."

"Then marry me." The words were out before Sherlock consciously thought them. But he realized he meant it. He wanted to marry John.

"What?" John said. He looked confused.

"Marry me. I love you – we love each other. Let's get married, John, and grow old together."

John continued to stare at him, but the listlessness was gone. John's face was animated with emotions too fleeting and complex for Sherlock to decipher. They coalesced into a flare of temper. "What the bloody fuck are you talking about!?" He demanded.

"I want to be with you for the rest of our lives. Marriage should convince you that I'm serious – that I won't leave."

John just stared at him, the anger leaking away like water through a sieve. "I can't marry you." He said, his voice flat.

The disappointment was acute. Sherlock struggled to suppress it, to contain something so vast. It took a moment. Bob was watching them both with utter seriousness. "Of course." Sherlock managed. "Of course, with Shane..."

"It's not Shane." John said.

"Oh. It's me then. I thought... never mind what I thought." Sherlock swallowed the bile in his throat.

"You don't mean it."

"John, I do..."

"You feel guilty. For this." John lifted his left arm the barest amount, but his meaning was clear.

"It has nothing to do with that. You know how I feel – that night we were together... you knew then."

"Things are different now."

"No, John, I feel the same. If you don't want me, I understand. If you want Shane, I'll accept it. But if your only objection is that no one could possibly love you because you lost a hand, that's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous."

"Let's take a step back." Bob interjected. "Let's catch our breath for a moment."

But John was having none of it. "It's time for you to go." He said to Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock asked in surprise.

"Go. Get out. I want to talk to Bob alone now."

"But..."

"Go!"

"John." Bob said. "This is pretty much what we're talking about – you're trying to shut Sherlock out."

"This ... this is different!"

"Is it?" Bob asked.

"Yes! He just fucking proposed! I have no idea what to do with that. I want to get my head around this before I talk to him. Talk to you." John added, glancing at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, are you OK with that? Waiting to talk to John about this later?" Bob added with an apologetic eyebrow raise.

"If it means I can leave this room, then yes!" Sherlock had to escape this nightmare!

"Ok." Bob said. "But don't go far. Ok?"

Sherlock stood stiffly and walked to the door. He didn't look back. He opened the door, walked through it, closed it behind him and leaned on it – he was both drained and wired. And confused.

"John." Sherlock heard Bob's voice through the door. "Tell me how you are feeling right now."

"I don't know. Overwhelmed."

"Do you believe Sherlock was sincere?"

Sherlock strained to hear John's answer – the pause was deafening. "Yeah. Yes." John said. "He's sincere, but that's not the point."

"What is the point?"

"I don't know what to DO with it. I know he thinks he's in love with me. But I don't feel... capable... of giving him what he wants. I have too much else on right now."

"What do you think he wants?"

"You don't know him, he's completely self-centered. He's selfish." 

Sherlock felt a surge of guilt. John was right, what had he been thinking? He sagged against the door. 

Bob was talking again, but Sherlock couldn't listen any longer. He left the doctor's office and wandered through the hallways. 

What was he going to do? 

Sherlock found himself outside. The evening air was crisp, it felt good against his face. He walked aimlessly for a while – he would have to go back to hospital, although Sherlock didn't know if would be more selfish to go back to be with John or to stay away. He couldn't think clearly about this. 

Then he realized where he was. He was outside of the home of a cocaine dealer Sherlock had bought from in the past. His self-centered, selfish feet had brought him here because cocaine had an amazing way of making Sherlock's thoughts sharper and faster. Cocaine made him feel more like himself. 

He hadn't felt like himself in a long time. Months. Over a year, maybe. He certainly hadn't been sharp whilst abusing heroin. In rehab, his head had felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool most of the time. It had cleared slowly and he'd come back to London, but not to HIS London. Not to Baker Street and Lestrade and his life as a consulting detective. He hadn't been welcome in Baker Street, and though he'd moved back in now, Sherlock realized he couldn't stay there. When John was healthy again, he would have to leave. How could he live with John and not HAVE John?

It would be so easy to ring the bell and go into the dealer's flat and buy an eight-ball. He could do a line or two right there in the flat and everything would feel RIGHT again. He would be the Sherlock that didn't have inappropriate feelings for his flat mate. The Sherlock that didn't care about anything but his work, about being right! 

He would be the selfish, self-centered prick that John had been talking about. 

It was hard, but he forced himself to walk away from the dealer's flat. 

 

\----

 

Neither Shane nor Sherlock were in his room when John returned. He felt relieved – they hadn't left him alone much recently. And he was tired, he hadn't slept much last night. Maybe he'd have a nap before dinner.

Or maybe he'd watch the telly. Or maybe he'd just lie down and feel shitty.

How had all this happened to him? John closed his eyes. He'd removed limbs in Afghanistan, he knew exactly how his surgery must have gone. He couldn't stop replaying it in his mind, the surgeon picking up the scalpel, the bone saw, the clamps...

"I have dinner." It was Sherlock. John looked at the clock – he must have dozed off. Sherlock pulled the table up and set a Pret a Manger bag down. "Where's Shane?" He asked.

"I haven't seen him." John said, adjusting the bed so he could sit up. "It's ridiculous that I'm laying in bed all bloody day." He muttered. It WAS ridiculous. Yeah, he needed more rest to promote healing, but this was just dumb.

Sherlock started unpacking the bag – sandwiches and lots of the salty crisps John favoured. And a banofee pudding for Sherlock's sweet tooth. He looked absolutely miserable. John tried to find some empathy within himself, to find the strength to say something to Sherlock to alleviate his pain. But he couldn't. 

"John..." Sherlock began.

"I don't want to talk about it." John cut him off. 

"Fine. We won't." Sherlock said with a wry grimace. "But the offer stands."

The offer. Sherlock's offer of marriage. Talk about ridiculous. The problem was, John could envision himself married to Sherlock. If the man hadn't left him, they could very well be married already. Probably they would be, living together in the Baker Street flat, sharing a bed, sharing meals and adventures. Sharing love. 

If iMoran had kidnapped him and he'd ended up losing his hand in that other reality, the one in which Sherlock hadn't left him, it would still be awful. Hideous. Unimaginable. But John's personal life would be settled. Happy. He would know where he stood with everyone. He wouldn't have spent years pining for a dead man. He wouldn't be staring at three sandwiches, wondering what the fuck he was going to do when he went home and Shane and Sherlock called off their truce. He no longer had the energy to navigate that mess. It was tempting to tell them BOTH to bugger off.

The offer stands. The GALL of the man. He was an utter cock! Waltzing back into John's life like he'd never left, never discarded John and their life together like so much refuse. And then! Thinking he could PROPOSE!

John wasn't hungry. Neither was Sherlock apparently, they both sat there staring at the meal in silence. 

Jesus, John disgusted himself, sitting here wallowing...

"Oh." Sherlock said, as if just remembering. "I'd like you to take a look at these – if you could. The autopsy results for the two victims." He set the folders on the table. 

John picked them up. "Yeah." He said feeling interest pricking his brain almost painfully. "I will." He opened the first folder. It was Tamara Krazinsky's. John started reading.

He was halfway through when Shane came in. 

"Hey, Babe." Shane said and leaned in to kiss John. John turned his face towards his boyfriend and gave him a real kiss. He saw it surprised Shane. And it pleased him. "Feeling a little better." He pulled up the other chair and picked up a sandwich. Shane looked at John and then Sherlock. "Aren't you eating?" He asked.

"Oh. Right." John said. He still wasn't hungry, but the thought of eating didn't turn his stomach. He took a bite of his sandwich.

Sherlock was either deep in thought or sulking epically. "Leave him alone." John said to Shane.

"How did it go with Bob?" Shane asked John.

John didn't look up from his reading. "Fine." He said.

Sherlock stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly on the floor. He stalked out of John's room. 

"That bad?" Shane asked.

And John's mood plummeted.

Shane stayed another hour then kissed John goodnight. "I'll miss you tonight." He said.

John scoffed. "You're looking forward to sleeping in your own bed instead of crowding into this thing. Besides, hospital gives you the heebie-jeebies." 

"Yes." Shane acknowledged. "But I'll still miss you." John accepted another kiss. 

"See you tomorrow." John said. 

"Do you want me to hunt down Sherlock before I go?"

"No. I'm fine." John didn't need a babysitter. He continued to pore over the autopsy reports looking for commonalities, for a smoking gun. He read about Fraser's illness and Krazinsky's injuries. Fraser had taken blood pressure medication in life and Krazinsky took the same antidepressant that John was currently prescribed. He found the injection marks Sherlock had mentioned – both the suspicious ones and the ones Sherlock himself had inflicted to take blood samples. Fraser's was under his testicles, Krazinsky's between her toes. John remembered the odd night nurse who had uncovered his feet and shuddered. 

How had she managed to get behind the scrotum of a man under the covers in a suit of pajamas? John could think of one or two ways but they all involved sex acts. She HAD been strangely preoccupied with sex that night she found Shane and Sherlock sharing his bed.

Which reminded him – Sherlock was still MIA. The ward had grown dark and silent while John had studied the reports.

John set the folders aside and rubbed his eyes. He was so tired – but sleep was elusive these days. He limped to the toilet to brush his teeth, cursing the weakness in his left leg. Something else he would have to live with. 

He examined himself in the mirror. The bruises were starting to fade, the abrasions had almost healed. The alarming blackness from the subcutaneous bleed stretched from groin to knee, but all swelling and tenderness was gone. John was starting to feel more normal, the physical trauma of the torture and the surgery slowly fading. 

But he was broken now permanently, physically as well as mentally. He would be a burden on those closest to him, no matter what they claimed. That was the reason he'd let Shane talk him into allowing Sherlock to move back into their flat – it was Sherlock's punishment for everything he'd put John through. Shane certainly didn't deserve to be stuck with the duty of care for a bitter cripple.

John heard movement in the room. He started back to bed, thinking Sherlock had finally returned. And came face to face with Nurse Measing. She looked pale and foreboding in the dim hospital room, her rosy cheeks and curvy figure erased in the gloom.

"What do you want?" John asked brusquely.

She was holding John's chart. "All alone tonight?" She asked pointedly.

"What do you want?" John repeated.

"I'm here for your vitals."

John sighed. "Is that necessary? I'm obviously fine."

"Procedure." She said. 

John stared her down. Lately he hadn't cared much what anyone wanted – he'd submitted without comment. But tonight he was irritated. It gave him the energy and purpose he'd been lacking. "No." He said. "Not tonight. I'm done."

"Mister Wat–"

"Doctor!" He interrupted her. "Doctor Watson. And I'm not a doctor of philosophy or dentistry. I'm a medical doctor. A surgeon. I know what I'm talking about. So leave me alone!"

"But..."

"Out! Get out!"

The nurse hesitated a moment longer, then turned on her heel and marched out of the room.

John immediately felt guilty. He shouldn't treat hospital staff that way. He shouldn't treat anyone that way. But he was relieved that she was gone. He returned to the bog and turned on the shower. He stripped off quickly – he only tried to use his nonexistent left hand twice – and stepped in, letting the hot water beat down on the back of his neck and his shoulders.

He stayed in the shower for a long time, eventually turning his face to the spray in the vain hope that it would stimulate his tears to fall – he could feel them inside, like rot. John desperately wanted them out.

But they wouldn't come. Eventually he turned off the water. A few minutes later, he realized he was still standing in the shower when the shivers started. He was wet and cold. 

John stepped out of the shower – and Sherlock was there, holding out a towel. He had been waiting with silent patience for John to emerge. John took the proffered towel and smiled at his friend. 

Sherlock absolutely glowed. How long had it been since John had smiled at him? He couldn't remember. He stepped forward, catching hold of Sherlock before he could stand aside, and looked up into his strange and beautiful face. 

"You came back!" John cried.

"Of course." Sherlock said. He pulled John against his chest despite the wet. John buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder. He smelled good. He smelled like home.

And then the tears came. Great, wrenching sobs tearing at John's chest. Sherlock just held him more tightly, his lips against John's head, his hands on the bare skin of his back. He held John until the tears ran out, until his shivering stopped and John started to feel warm again.

"I'm sorry." John mumbled. He was beginning to be embarrassed.

"No." Sherlock said. "No." He kissed John's temple. "You don't have to apologize to me."

John clung to him, his hand around Sherlock's neck. He looked up, intending to look into Sherlock's eyes – Sherlock's eyes couldn't keep secrets from John. But he kissed Sherlock instead.

"You came back." John repeated. "After what I said... I didn't know if you..." He tangled his fingers in Sherlock's dark curls, loving the feel of them. "Do you ever think about the night we spent together?

"All the time." Sherlock kissed him again and John lost himself for a moment. "I love you, John." 

"I know." John said. "I know you do. I wish I could show you how much I ..." John sighed in frustration. "But right now..."

"No, I know."

"I tried yesterday. I thought maybe a good wank would make me feel better. But my cock ...it's..." John inhaled another breath of Sherlock. "He took so much..."

Sherlock hugged him close. "Whenever you're up for it." Sherlock murmured. "Just let me know."

John laughed. "You wanker. Come on, lets go to bed."

"Yes."

"Sherlock, thank you for coming back."

"I should never have left." John wondered if he meant faking his death.

Sherlock put John to bed and shed his own kit expediently. He climbed in – John appreciated that he'd stripped all the way this time, he liked the feeling of Sherlock's pale skin against his own. John was still slightly damp, his hair making a bit of a spot on the pillow. 

"Seems like yours works just fine." John murmured, grinding his hip against Sherlock's semi hard member.

"Sorry... I'm not used to..."

"No, I like it." John said and took hold of it, jacking it to full hardness. "It feels good."

Sherlock moaned involuntarily – an animal sound of desire and need. John spit into his hand and began jacking in earnest. "That's it...yeah... kiss me – no, you don't touch it, only me. Put your hands on my body... that's it... you're so beautiful ... oh yeah, fuck my hand...." John watched Sherlock overcome with pleasure, the expressions on his face – wonder, delight, vulnerability, passion, love... he realized, finally, that Sherlock was utterly, baldly factual when he claimed to want to be with John for the rest of his life. How had a man who had completely closed himself off from this kind of connection fallen in love with HIM? And John had almost driven him away out of anger.

As he kissed Sherlock's face and encouraged him to cum, John thought about what a responsibility it was, this brilliant man's love. What a trust he had been given. It didn't frighten him now, or make him feel resentful, it felt right. Sherlock's proposal made complete sense now. Maybe later it wouldn't, it might confuse and anger him again. But in this moment, John understood. And he agreed.

"That's right, cum on me... shoot it on my chest... come on, I want it... oh, yes, love ... just like that..." John hooked his left arm around Sherlock's straining body – unselfconscious of his ungainly stump for the moment – and held him close as he climaxed, kissing his ivory neck. 

Sherlock lay back, panting. "That was..." He didn't seem to have words.

"That was." John agreed. He kissed Sherlock, enjoying an encouraging hint of arousal in his own battered body with relief – the first sign that at some point, he would feel normal again. John had been almost convinced that was impossible. 

Sherlock dropped off to sleep, his face angelic in repose. John watched him. He would add this to the handful of 'perfect moments' he had experienced in his life – seeing his beautiful, sated lover fall asleep in his embrace. It reminded him, in a way, of waking in Sherlock's arms and kissing him so long ago.

John arranged himself carefully in the single bed, making sure his stump had enough room. He matched his breath to Sherlock's and closed his eyes, trying to fall asleep .

That was when John realized he hadn't thought about Shane at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, John goes home.


	6. Their Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is released from hospital.

It had taken all morning for John to get his release from hospital and even longer to actually get out of the building. Angus had insisted on taking him to the door in a wheelchair, which was ridiculous, but at least he got a few minutes with the burly nurse. 

“Thank god I’m getting rid of you.” Angus said. “Finally. You and your harem.” 

John had laughed. “My harem. I wish it were that simple.” 

“You seem to have a system worked out – alternate nights. Of course, it’s hard to get any alone time.”

“Mm. Alone time is overrated." 

“A distracted man is a happy man?”

“Something like that.

“Have to face the music sooner or later.”

“Isn’t that what all these pills are for?” John had three prescriptions in his lap.

“If you’re lucky.”

“Right. Luck.” He was wearing the loaner prosthesis, the thick sock making his still-healing stump unpleasantly sweaty.

“You could have died.” Angus observed.

John laughed. “You are determined to cheer me up.” Angus had laughed with him.

Now John was finally in a cab, turning onto Baker Street for the first time since he’d been kidnapped by Moran’s men. It felt like years, not weeks. He was relieved and happy to be coming home.

But John was coming back changed. Losing his hand had shaken his self-confidence – he no longer knew what he was capable of. He no longer knew himself. 

But he feared he was now a liability. A burden.

John set that aside with a sigh. Shane looked at him questioningly, but John looked away. Why bother trying to explain? It didn’t really matter anyway.

Sherlock exploded from 221 Baker Street when the cab pulled up. He had the taxi’s door open almost before it stopped. Mrs. Hudson was right behind him, ready to fuss over John. He could resist Shane's and Sherlock’s fussing, but he had to let Mrs. Hudson cluck over him, at least for a while.

“John, dear, welcome home.” She said, taking his arm as he climbed out of the cab. “It’s so good to have you both back where you belong.”

“It’s good to be home, Mrs. H.” She accompanied him up the stairs. Shane carried John’s overnight bag and Sherlock trailed behind like an especially awkward third wheel. John still held his phone in his hand and had the bag of pills clasped in his pincers.

“You sit down, I’ll put the kettle on.” She said. 

John set the phone and prescriptions on the kitchen table and took his bag from Shane. He took it into his bedroom and shut the door. Whether or not alone time was overrated, John suddenly needed some. 

He dropped his overnight bag on the floor and took off his coat, and then his shirt – he was getting better at doing the buttons one handed, but it still took a frustratingly long amount of time and concentration. When it was finally off, he threw it on the floor in disgust. Then he unstrapped the prosthesis and rolled the sock off of his arm. It felt WONDERFUL to have that thing off.

He set them carefully on the highboy and flopped down on his bed. All he’d done for two weeks was lie in bed and the first thing he did on coming home was lie down. Pathetic.

But John lacked the will to move.

 

\-----

 

"Leave him be."

Sherlock looked at Shane's hand on his arm with irritation – he hated the man giving him orders in his own home.

But Shane was right – John needed space. 

And this wasn't really Sherlock's home anymore, no matter how 'at home' he felt. He had forfeited his right to call it home when he'd left on his two-year jaunt through Moriarty’s gang, heroin dens and rehab.

Shane was John’s boyfriend. No matter what privileges Sherlock had been extended during John’s recuperation, Shane was his boyfriend. He had a say in John’s affairs.

Sherlock nodded and retreated to the kitchen. He’d drunk his tea and then threatened Mrs. Hudson with violent expulsion if she didn’t leave him alone. 

“Call me if John needs anything.” She’d said, unperturbed, and made her way back to her own apartment. 

It vexed Sherlock that he hadn't solved the suspicious deaths in the intensive care ward. 

John had struck up conversations wth Fraser's partner and Krazinsky's friend and had helped Sherlock form a list of the things the two victims had in common. It was a short list.

\- critical care patients 

\- suspicious injection marks

\- physical fitness/sports 

\- deep depression over hospitalization 

\- high levels of GBH in blood and urine

That appeared to be the cause of death – GBH overdose. GBH wasn’t just a ‘date rape’ drug used to incapacitate unsuspecting women, it was also a gay party drug used in clubs and in private ‘chemsex’ parties. Like methamphetamine, GBH – taken in small amounts – reduced inhibitions and heightened libido. The difference between an intoxicating dose and a lethal dose was quite small, so GBH deaths weren’t uncommon. It had even been the weapon of choice of a serial killer a few years ago. 

And it seemed that it was again.

This information ruled out Nurse Measing. Before the toxicology report had been finalized, he'd set traps for her that she blithely ignored. Sherlock had followed her after her shift...and been thoroughly bored. She wasn’t in the habit of going to clubs or parties – she had few friends and almost no social life. She was a classic introvert, preferring solitude and feeling uncomfortable in large groups. That might explain her strangeness on the ward – she simply didn’t relate to other people very well.

The other suspects… no one was standing out. Sherlock wanted to talk it through with John again, that often jump started his brain. Although it hadn’t thus far… what was the motive? Why had the killer chosen THESE patients? Sherlock had managed to comb through the morgue records, these were the only two suspicious deaths, the only two to die of GBH poisoning who hadn’t come into the A&E with it.

Nothing in their lives overlapped EXCEPT being patients in the same ward at the same time. They had different professions, different hobbies, lived in different areas. Fraser had an illness while Krazinsky had been injured in an accident… were they both witnesses to some crime? If so, when? Fraser had been in hospital for weeks, Krazinsky only two days.

It was maddening.

“Erm, I’m going to get going.” Shane said. Sherlock blinked – he’d forgotten the other man was still there. “Just going to say goodbye to John.”

Shane walked down the hall and tapped lightly on John’s bedroom door. Sherlock could just hear John’s voice, but not what he said. It must have been an invitation as Shane disappeared into the room, shutting the door behind him. 

Sherlock started his mental stopwatch. 

It was petty this – counting the seconds, the minutes, the hours that Shane spent with John. He didn’t tally his own time with John, he just enjoyed it. He didn’t compare the time they each got with John, but Sherlock resented every second given to Shane. He knew it was stupid. Resenting John’s boyfriend would only hurt John. And himself. And Shane was GOOD for John. There was no reason to resent him.

Four minutes twenty-one seconds. And there was no sign yet that Shane might emerge. As long as John needed him, Sherlock would be here…but when John was well again, when his amputation had healed and his depression receded… how long would Sherlock be able to live like this? How many days? How many weeks could he watch the only person he had ever loved love someone else? The whole thing made him feel ill. 

John’s door finally opened after 29 minutes thirty-eight seconds. Both Shane and John came out, holding hands and murmuring together. They walked past Sherlock to the door and he heard them kissing. 

“Bye, Sherlock.” Shane called and Sherlock heard his footsteps descend the stairs.

John shut the door. “You have that look on your face.” He said. 

“What look?”

“Like you’ve eaten something sour.”

“There’s nothing to eat in this flat, sour or otherwise.”

“Really? Nothing?”

“Unless Mrs. Hudson did the shopping.”

“You couldn’t have stopped by the market some time in the last week?”

Sherlock shrugged. 

“What have you been eating?”

“Mrs. Hudson baked biscuits.”

“You’ve been living on biscuits?”

“And takeaway. We had takeaway at hospital every evening.”

“You barely ate at hospital.”

“Neither did you.” John was wearing jeans and a tartan shirt unbuttoned over a white vest. The left sleeve covered his stump – if they didn’t know to look, most people wouldn’t notice he was missing a hand.

“You know I hate it when you don’t eat.”

“I never understood why you cared.” Sherlock said. “But now I do. I hate that you’re not eating.”

“I MIGHT eat if anyone had thought to stock the cupboards.”

“Fine. I’ll go shopping.” Sherlock stood up.

“I’ll come with you.” John said. “Let me get my coat.”

The excursion to the market was more fun than food shopping had any right to be. Sherlock filled their cart with Ginger Thins, Jaffa Cakes and Malteasers – not just to annoy John, but because he wanted them. John got milk, bread and jam and tossed a bunch of frozen meals in the cart.

“Is that what you’re going to eat?” Sherlock asked. “Why don’t you make the thing with the peas? Or the thing with the sauce?”

“I’m not really in the mood to cook.”

“But I LIKE the thing with the peas.” Sherlock whined.

“Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of me?” John asked.

Sherlock looked at him entreatingly with puppy-dog eyes.

“Fine. Whatever.” John stalked towards the produce and Sherlock followed with the cart.

John did end up cooking that evening.

“Why are you underfoot? You’re never in the kitchen when I’m cooking.”

“I’m helping.”

“Really?” John threw an onion at him. “Then chop this, all of it. Use the cutting board.” John directed rolling his eyes.

Sherlock proceeded to chop. John poured himself a glass of wine and sipped as he sautéed. The kitchen was warm and bright and it felt, to Sherlock, like a world unto itself, a world that held only two people.

When he’d finished with the onion, John gave him the peas to shell. Sherlock had never shelled peas before and he was charmed by the whole process – the way the pods popped open, the fresh, delicate peas inside, some so tiny and perfect, their color and smell… he became so absorbed in the peas that when he noticed John watching him he had the distinct impression that John had been watching him for some time.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head a bemused smile on his face. "I like you." He said.

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. He settled on "Mmf."

John's smile broadened. He took the bowl of shelled peas to the stove. Sherlock felt warm and a little high. It occurred to him that John was doing a little better, his mood wasn't so dour. 

If John had been his, Sherlock would have gone to him now and put his arms around him whilst he cooked. Instead he once again regretted his actions, regretted running away from this man in abject fear of his own emotions. If he'd stayed...

Sherlock put those thoughts away – regret changed nothing. Instead he leaned back in his chair and watched John. He'd shed the tartan shirt and donned the prosthetic. He was using the hook mostly as a counter – to steady the pan whilst he stirred, to hold veg still as he cut, to press a bottle to his hip as he unscrewed the cap. Sherlock could see his delts and lats rippling under the cotton vest, see his biceps flexing casually as he worked. John had lost the softness around his middle that he'd had before Sherlock left, and he'd apparently turned to exercise to combat his grief. He looked amazing. Sherlock wanted to peel the jeans off and watch his glutes flex and firm as he moved from counter to stove. Sherlock felt sparks of interest from his cock – it was like watching porn (if Sherlock watched porn). He could unbutton his trousers and stroke himself watching the dance of John's muscles. He imagined John's expression if Sherlock climaxed sitting here in the kitchen whilst John cooked – the combination of surprise, disapproval, irritation and bemusement would be delightful.

John interrupted his reverie. "Dinner's ready." He said. "Get the plates." John slipped his hook into the handle of the silverware drawer and pulled it open. He grabbed forks and shut the drawer with his hip. He seemed to be getting the hang of using the prosthesis.

Sherlock poured John more wine as John filled their plates. On a whim, Sherlock poured himself some wine. John raised his eyebrows at that, but said nothing.

"Mmmm." Sherlock had forgotten how much he liked the thing with the peas. John's appetite was much improved as well, Sherlock was happy to see. For a few moments they savoured the meal in companionable silence.

"This was a good idea." John said.

Sherlock smiled at him through a mouthful of peas. John smiled back.

"It's strange – and at the same time, completely normal – to be here with you, in our flat share. I spent so many nights here thinking I'd never see you again, let alone here... "

"I don't know if I've told you how much I regret leaving."

"No, you haven't. You've explained and apologized, but you've never expressed regret. In fact you said in your letter that if you had to do it over, you'd do the same thing."

"No." Sherlock said, setting down his fork. "I was wrong – I was arrogant and I was wrong. I never should have left you. I let my fear guide me and I ran. I should have told you how afraid I was... talked to you... but regret is useless – I can't do it over, dwelling on it is ridiculous!"

"It's not." John said, laying his hand on Sherlock's arm. "You learn from regret. And your regret makes it easier for me believe that you won't leave me again."

"Then I won't delete it." Sherlock said with quiet sincerity.

"If you delete it, you better delete ME at the same time." John stated baldly. "Your regret is what redeems you."

"Redeems... am I redeemed, John?"

John leaned closer to Sherlock. "Yes." He said softly. 

Sherlock felt like John wanted to kiss him, wanted to lean closer until their lips brushed against each other, then crushed together in a surfeit of passion. But John turned back to the table and picked up his fork.

"When will you let Lestrade know you're back?" John asked. "You must want to be working again."

"I'm not in a rush. The hospital deaths are unsolved. I'm still thinking about it... I must have missed something. I was certain the murderer would try to kill you when we gave him the opportunity..."

"Him? Or her?"

"I don't know. Men are more apt to be violent. Women are more likely to be angels of mercy killers... since I ruled out Nurse Measing, I have to go back over everyone who had opportunity both nights."

"What's your strategy?"

"It would be ideal if I were a patient, but I don't think they take malingerers. Short of injuring myself..."

"You're NOT injuring yourself." John insisted.

Sherlock smiled to himself – John cared! "No, not yet anyway."

"No, not at all. The last thing we need is for us both to be invalided. Promise me you won't do anything stupid."

"That's a rather more broad promise than I can make." Sherlock laughed. "But I promise I won't try to hurt myself to get into hospital."

John chuckled along. But the levity drained away quickly. He set down his fork and pushed his plate away. He'd eaten more than half, Sherlock was happy to see, but he'd hoped John would eat more. He did, however, pick up the glass of wine and drain it. "Don't we have anything stronger?" John asked.

"Not in the flat." Sherlock informed him. "But I could get heroin here in about... forty minutes."

John grimaced. "No, thank you. I was thinking more along the lines of whisky."

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to." Sherlock said lightly. 

"Hrmph." John didn't like that. He stood up abruptly and picked up his plate. He reached for the empty wine glass with his left and knocked it over with the hook. It rolled off the table and smashed on the floor. "Goddammit!" He'd forgotten he didn't have a left hand, he'd just reached out for the glass.

Sherlock was already standing. "It's ok, I'll clean it..." 

He didn't finish his sentence because John hurled his plate across the room into the cupboards. His fork followed. 

Sherlock grabbed his arms. "John! John! Stop." John struggled – he was strong, bullishly strong, and he shoved Sherlock off him. Sherlock was forced backwards, he tripped over his chair and went down on the kitchen floor, hard. It took a moment for him to recover – he'd smacked his head on the lino and lost the plot briefly.

Then John was crouching next to him. "Jesus, I'm sorry, Sherlock." He said. "Watch the glass."

Sherlock realized he'd fallen on the broken wine glass. He could feel it cutting into his flesh in several places. He wiggled and rolled away from the table, John grabbed his hand and pulled him up. "Are you cut?" John asked.

"Yes." Sherlock said. He was still seeing stars, trying not to black out from the head rush of standing. He must have staggered because John's arms were around him, supporting him. Sherlock could feel the plastic of the prosthesis pressing against his back, the metal hook on his arm. 

"Come on, into the toilet. I'll take a look at the cuts." John kept his arms around him until they got to the sink. "Where?" John asked. "Your hip is bleeding."

"Yes, there. And on my back up by my left shoulder... maybe other places..." Sherlock trailed off. His head hurt. 

"Take your shirt off – carefully, there's probably glass on it." Sherlock dutifully unbuttoned his shirt. When he pulled it off, there was a sharp pain in his shoulder – the glass pulling out with the cloth – and a wave of nausea. "You have a couple nicks." John said. "Only the shoulder is deep. Take your trousers off."

Sherlock unbuckled his belt and slid his trousers down carefully. 

"And your pants." John said. "Nothing I haven't seen before – I want to stop the bleeding."

So Sherlock eased his pants off as well. John examined his hip. 

"I'm going to need tweezers to get the shards out." He said. He started to reach with his left arm, stopped and swore under his breath and picked up the tweezers with his right. He steadied himself with the hook and deftly dug the glass out of the wounds. He washed them, a bit awkwardly, but with his usual gentle thoroughness. 

Sherlock felt strange standing there with his pants and trousers around his ankles – he didn't want to take his shoes off in case he'd brought glass in on his clothing – not strange as in self-conscious, but the light-headed feeling of standing on a boat in the surf. He thought it must be from John's fingers on his skin.

"Where is this blood coming from?" John asked, touching Sherlock's neck. "Did you cut your head?"

"I don't think so." Sherlock said. John's deft fingers probed his scalp, searching for a wound. "Ow!" He yelped.

"That's tender?" John asked, separating Sherlock's dark curls to get a better look.

"Yes!"

"Erg, looks like a pretty big gash... yeah, you're going to need stitches."

Sherlock swore. "Fine." He said. "Get it over with." He suppressed another wave of nausea.

"I can't do it." John said.

"You've given me stitches before."

"With two hands."

"You've got the hook thing."

"Sherlock, even if I could work out how to do it with the bloody 'hook thing,' you can barely stand – I'm sure you have a concussion. You need to be stitched up and checked out in A&E. Come into the bedroom and get dressed. I'm taking you to hospital!"

"Fine." Sherlock huffed, reaching down for his trousers and trying to hide the wave of dizziness that caused.

John steadied him. "Look on the bright side." He said. "You can snoop around after your killer." Sherlock brightened and let John guide him into his bedroom. "Sit down." John commanded, indicating his bed.

Sherlock had not been in this room – formerly his own bedroom – with John since the night they'd spent together, since they'd woken together in the morning sunlight and fucked... their sweaty skin pressed together... John's hands gripping his hips, his big cock stretching him... it had been painful at first but Sherlock had tried to hide the pain... then suddenly it felt amazing, better than he'd imagined, and he couldn't hide that. It turned him into an animal, cursing and begging John for more. It transported him to a place he'd never been – that he desperately wanted to revisit. Being there now, almost naked, with John, was making him feel giddy.

John disappeared but quickly returned with clothes for Sherlock. "Here." John said, holding out a t-shirt.

Sherlock saw John clearly, saw he was in pain. He touched the prosthetic. "This is hurting you." Sherlock said. "Let me take this off."

"I can do it myself!" John snapped crossly.

"Of course you can." Sherlock said, touching John's cheek softly. "But allow me the privilege."

John was taken aback by Sherlock's manner, the intimacy of the touch, the formality of the request. He cleared his throat nervously, but held still while Sherlock pulled the strap off John's shoulder and carefully took the prosthetic from his arm. Then Sherlock rolled the thick, protective sock off John's stump. He caught the stump in his elegant fingers and brought his lips down to kiss it. 

John allowed it, but his face was stormy. "What do you want from me, Sherlock?" He asked.

"Everything." Sherlock said. "I want everything. I want to be near you, John. I want to sleep with you. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to make love with you every day. And everywhere – on the sofa, the floor in front of the fireplace, on the kitchen table, in the shower, oh god, in the shower!, over the sink, in this bed, on the stairs, in dark alleys, I want to fuck in fields of wheat and rapeseed. Everywhere, every day...I want to be by your side – and I want you by my side! I want to walk with you and feel your fingers brush against mine, I want to hold your hand. I want to touch your neck and your hair." Sherlock moved his hand down to John's neck and around to the nape, he combed his thumb through the short hair back there. "I want to be able to kiss you whenever I want and every time I want. I want to marry you and wear your ring – and see my ring your hand. I want grow old with you. I want you there when I die because if you die first you will take such a big part of me with you... I want EVERYTHING, John. I want you."

John hadn't expected such a speech, Sherlock could tell. But he didn't care, he felt drunk with happiness just being with John right now. He still had his hand on John's neck so Sherlock leaned in and kissed him, John's mouth delicious under his own. 

The world slowly disappeared, only their kiss existing. Black swum in his peripheral vision obscuring everything but John. Then even John began to disappear. Sherlock strained to see John's face, but he was falling away from him... falling... falling...

With his last conscious thought, Sherlock realized he was fainting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter - how does John feel about Sherlock's declaration?


	7. The Killer Strikes Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes Sherlock to hospital for treatment.

A&E was a madhouse. It was two hours before Sherlock was ushered into the examination area and he'd spent the wait complaining and insisting that he was perfectly fine. 

As irritating as that was, John was relieved Sherlock hadn't awakened from his swoon in the same romantic mood he'd been in before fainting. Sherlock's naked desire to so completely intertwine his life and John's was overwhelming, discomfiting and frightening. No wonder Sherlock had run away from John – John felt like fleeing the intensity of Sherlock's emotion too.

What must it be like in Sherlock's head? What must it be like to see so much all the time? To know so much about everyone with a glance –the good, the bad, the distasteful. His brilliance made him different from other people – he must have developed defenses against information overload... defenses that included turning off his own emotions, never letting anyone in. Never getting close.

How had John gotten through all Sherlock's defenses? Not by trying, that's for sure. John had not set out to win Sherlock's heart. He'd simply befriended this man that chance had thrown his way...

Sherlock read John as easily as he did everyone else, how had that not put him off? John knew he had bad habits – nasty habits even – just like everyone does. How could Sherlock see all of that and still want him?

And want him SO MUCH. Sherlock's feelings were raw, untempered – like a tidal wave crashing down onto shore, flooding and destroying everything in its path. Could John withstand that much pure emotion and still be himself? Or would it consume him, make him part of itself, part of Sherlock, with no individuality ... nothing of his own...

"Back already?" John jumped – he'd been so wrapped up in his thoughts, he hadn't seen Angus Church approach.

"Uh! Oh, erm... Angus! I guess I couldn't stay away."

"My charms are so great?" The nurse's merry eyes danced. "Or are you fighting with your boyfriends already."

John smiled – he hadn't known Angus long, but the nurse knew his situation and an outside ear might be helpful. "Just with Sherlock – but fighting with Sherlock is normal."

"Mm. Seriously, why ARE you here? You're ok?"

"Yes, I'm good. I brought Sherlock into A&E – he, ahem, hit his head and needs stitches."

"Hit his head? On what?" The nurse asked holding up his hands and punching an imaginary foe.

"Not my fist, if that's what you're implying!" For the first time, John felt cross with Angus' sense of humor.

"It's just a joke, John. I'm sorry."

John sighed. "Just a little close to home – it WAS my fault. I was... frustrated... and acting out. Sherlock got in the way and ended up hitting his head on the lino. I feel responsible – I AM responsible."

"Frustration in your situation is expected. I'm certain Sherlock doesn't blame you."

"Who knows – he's been pretty loopy since. He's concussed, I'm sure."

Angus Church chuckled. "He didn't propose again, did he?"

John was taken aback. "How did you know about that?"

"You told me all about it."

"I didn't tell anyone!"

"John, we..."

"Did Sherlock say something? Or Bob?" John demanded.

"John, we had a whole conversation about it." Angus protested. "You said you wanted to accept Sherlock's proposal but you were afraid to give up Shane – you thought Shane was more trustworthy than Sherlock. You said you were quite torn about it, but you couldn't keep them both."

"I ...don't remember." John felt profoundly confused – how could he forget telling the burly man something so personal? "You aren't ...gaslighting me?"

"I'm not making it up, am I." The stocky northerner said, concern on his face. He put his hand on John's shoulder. "Have there been other instances of forgetfulness?"

"How would I know if I can't remember?" John asked querulously.

Angus' chuckle was more strained than good-natured. "Good point. It WAS pretty late at night, maybe you weren't as awake as you seemed."

"Late? Why were you at hospital at night?"

"I pick up a double shift now and again. When they need the help."

"Oh... I didn't realize..."

Angus laughed soundly, sincerely – a loud, ringing peal of mirth. "That makes me a suspect, innit?" He asked, his eyes dancing. "Will Sherlock 'investigate' me? I'll bet he's pretty good at 'investigating.'" He made a lewd gesture to illustrate his meaning.

John shook his head, smiling, though he wasn't at all amused by the thought of Sherlock and Angus together. In fact he found it disturbing – not because Angus was a bad guy or poor boyfriend material or anything like that. The thought of Sherlock with anyone seemed wrong. 

Anyone but himself.

John set that aside to think about later.

"John, if you don't mind me asking, how did you get involved with BOTH Shane and Sherlock?"

John frowned. "You know who Sherlock is? You've read about him in the papers? Social media?"

"I wasn't sure it was the same bloke – he's supposed to have died, I thought."

"It's him. I thought he'd died too. Before that, we were flatmates for a couple years. And friends – close friends..."

"Lovers?"

"No. I'm... I'm bisexual, I guess. I was seeing women exclusively when I lived with Sherlock... after a while... I thought there could be more between us. But there wasn't. Then he left – died, I thought – and I met Shane."

"Then Sherlock came back? And wanted more than friendship?"

"Yeah. Yes. I'd sent him away, told him not to contact me... then this happened." John lifted his left arm slightly. "Sherlock saved me from the... the man that did this. And Shane saved Sherlock... everything got more and more complicated..." John sighed, then tried to shake it off. "What about you, Angus? You had a partner?"

It was Angus' turn to sigh. "I did. Taz... he went back to Sheffield. We'd been together for seven years – five here in London. I thought we were happy... classic story, I guess. Taz got the seven year itch... I knew something was off, but not..." The nurse shook his head ruefully. "He started seeing a chap from back home... I didn't know until he moved out. So stupid..."

"Not stupid." John reassured his friend. "He wasn't honest with you. How long ago did he leave?"

"Mmph. Almost a year. I guess I should be over it by now."

"It takes as long as it takes." John told him. "I was still mourning Sherlock two years after he left."

"Look at us –" Angus said, attempting a smile. "You have too many boyfriends and I have too few..."

"I know my problem isn't really much of a problem..." John started.

"No." Angus said. "You lost a hand – that's bigger than losing a boyfriend. Way bigger. As far as I'm concerned, you should keep both of 'em as long as they're helping you."

"Helping me what?" John asked, scoffing.

Angus laughed. "Exactly! You should be getting as much 'help' as you can manage."

John shrugged. "That sort of 'help' hasn't been ... possible..."

"Bob could prescribe viagra..."

"No." John said definitively. "I'm going to give it a few weeks at least before I consider something like that. I'm not feeling very amorous right now anyway."

"Fair enough."

"What about you?" John asked. "Have you gotten back out there? Looked around? Hooked up?"

Angus' wolfish smile made John uncomfortable. "Now and again." He said. "I'm curious – I haven't seen anything official about Sherlock 'rising from the dead' or anything. I'm surprised the papers aren't interested."

John was relieved that Angus had changed the subject, lost the predatory grin. Had John imagined it? Or maybe it was just sex, it brought out the animal in some people... "Not very many people know Sherlock is back – he's still dead as far as the public is concerned. Some of the people he's closest to don't even know yet." John rubbed his face tiredly. "So don't, erm, call the press or anything. Sherlock needs to tell them before it's public. If he decides to stay."

"If he decides? Why wouldn't he?"

"I don't know what he'll do if I don't... if he and I don't..."

"If you choose Shane instead of him."

"Yeah. Or neither of them."

"Neither? Why would you do that? Fair play?" The nurse asked sarcastically.

"I'm not exactly what either of them signed on for, am I?" John asked quietly.

"Oh, so we're back to pity, are we? Acting like a git is more becoming, John."

"No one ends up in A&E though." John said sadly.

"Seriously, John, your whingeing is unbearable, innit."

John felt the muscles in his jaw tense. "No one's forcing you to listen." He said.

The nurse looked John over coolly. "I DO have to get back to work." He said. "I know this is hard – harder than I can imagine – but both of those men love you, full stop. Let them help you."

John nodded once – acknowledgment not agreement – and the burly nurse walked away.

Angus was right, John reflected, he needed to stop whingeing. He needed to stop feeling sorry for himself. But it was difficult... he'd lost a hand. A HAND! Sometimes he he just wanted to scream at people – scream at Sherlock and Shane and Angus and anyone else listening to just leave him alone. Leave him alone to wallow in self-pity ...and indulge in angry tantrums ...and sit and watch the world go on without him because John didn't matter anymore! He couldn't contribute anything! He'd never be a soldier or a surgeon again. He could sit in a clinic and take temperatures and dispense pills – that's all his medical degree was good for now. He supposed he could shoot, but hand-to-hand he would be useless, a liability.

Which meant he wouldn't be much help to Sherlock with his cases now. Because, come on, John had never been invited along for his brains. John was the muscle, the 'good cop,' the apologizer for Sherlock's excesses. And – with unfortunate regularity – the damsel in distress in need of rescuing. 

He was heartily sick of needing rescue. And he never wanted to apologize for bloody Sherlock again.

But.... but... the excitement... the adrenaline... John had fallen in love with it long ago. And then he'd fallen for Sherlock, the man who had brought excitement back into his life... John had tasted the excitement on Sherlock's skin, smelled it in Sherlock's hair, in his perspiration, his arousal...

Was he ready to give that up? It was time – it was way past time – to grow up. John should find a nice woman, a place in the suburbs, a nine-to-five job... settle down...

John rubbed his eyes – he was developing a headache. He had walked aimlessly through the corridors and now he found himself outside. It was brisk, the cold, night air making his lungs feel rough with every inhalation.

He ought to check on Sherlock. His wound should be sutured by now. Sherlock might even be admitted overnight to monitor the concussion. 

John sighed wearily and turned back towards the entrance to A&E.

It was strangely quiet in the emergency ward, dim and seemingly abandoned. John looked for Sherlock's examination room – it was one of the curtained enclosures granting privacy to a cot and equipment cupboard. John wandered freely down the corridors, peering behind curtains until he found the familiar figure lying prone on a cot.

Sherlock was asleep.

"Sherlock." John called. He shouldn't be asleep if he was concussed. And he was lying on his back, the wound on his head pressed into the pillow. "Sherlock!" John shook him and got no response. He slapped Sherlock's cheeks and pinched his arm. Nothing.

John pulled back the curtain and looked around for someone who worked there. "Hey!" He called. "I need help."

He returned to Sherlock's side and took his pulse, his fingers pressing against Sherlock's neck. It was slow. Too slow! Sherlock didn't seem to be breathing...

Sherlock's shoes were off. John stared at his bare feet, alarm coursing through his body. Tamara Krazinsky had had an injection between her toes.

John walked to the foot of the cot. Sherlock was a junkie, a heroin addict, he had scars on his arms from the needles – they were faint on his ivory skin, but they were there. John didn't think Sherlock had injected himself between his toes, but he didn't know. 

John huffed, impatient with himself – a new needle mark would be obvious. He began to examine Sherlock, spreading his toes one after another. He found it between the first and second toes on his left foot – a small red dot, a bit of discoloration around it...

"Nurse! I need help!" John shouted as loudly as he could. He took Sherlock's pulse again – nothing! John tried again, repositioning his fingers, searching for the jugular... he felt his own heartbeat racing in his fingertips... but Sherlock's heart was still. 

John moved to Sherlock's chest and placed his hand on the sternum. He tried to put his left hand on top of his right...he stopped abruptly and swore floridly under his breath. He started compressions one handed, folding his left arm across his right to balance his weight over his single hand.

He counted out compressions, finding the rhythm, pressing hard enough to stimulate the heart to pump, but not hard enough to crack Sherlock's ribs. John stopped and moved to Sherlock's head. He put his hand under Sherlock's neck and pushed up, tilting his head back, opening his mouth slightly. Then grabbed Sherlock's nose, pinched it closed and used it to hold Sherlock's head in position. John fit his mouth over Sherlock's and forced air from his own lungs into his friend's. He repeated this twice then returned to compressions, shouting for help, shouting for someone to come.

John's shoulder and hand began to cramp. He wasn't certain how long he'd been performing CPR – long enough to have lost count of the cycles. He was tiring – this was so much harder without two hands, two arms. He concentrated on pressing hard enough on Sherlock's chest...

Finally – FINALLY – a nurse appeared.

"Nurse!" John panted. "We need to intubate! He's coded!" He continued counting out compressions.

She put her stethoscope in her ears and waved the sensor over John's hand. He stopped the compressions and pulled back, giving her room to search for a heartbeat. She tried three different spots on Sherlock's chest before giving up. 

"Code in room two. Code in room two." She spoke urgently into an intercom that John hadn't noticed. "Step back, sir." The nurse told John.

"I'm a doctor." John snapped and resumed the compressions, shaking off the fatigue in his shoulders. "He needs to be intubated – he needs a respirator!"

"I need you to step back." She repeated.

"I'm his doctor!"

Three more medical personnel ran into the room. One, with a brisk, "step back, sir," took over chest compressions and John sagged gratefully into a corner. The first nurse was prepping Sherlock for intubation and a doctor was pulling over a crash cart that the fourth had rolled in.

John watched anxiously as the doctor shocked Sherlock's heart. It restarted on the first try! Then he was connected to the respirator and John was very relieved to see Sherlock's chest rise and fall again. They attached a heart monitor. John found the regular BEEP-beep, BEEP-beep very soothing.

The doctor made notes on Sherlock's chart – then frowned as she read the initial report. The concussion shouldn't have been life threatening – not whilst Sherlock was being monitored in hospital.

"I think he's been poisoned." John told the doctor. "You need to test his blood for GBH."

"Does he take GBH recreationally?" She asked, still busy with the chart.

"No, I think someone injected him with a lethal dose SINCE he's been in hospital."

That got her attention. She narrowed her eyes skeptically, but didn't dismiss the idea. "What makes you think that?"

"There's a fresh needle stick between his toes – left foot." John said. "And in the past two weeks, two other patients – patients who had been in hospital for several days with unrelated illness or injury – have died of GBH poisoning, and both had injection marks in odd places – one between her toes." 

The doctor frowned, weighing the information.

"Look between his toes, between the first and second on his left foot. Run the blood test – what can it hurt? He should have activated charcoal..."

The doctor examined Sherlock's foot, found the injection mark. "Hmph." She stared at Sherlock's toes for a moment, deciding. "Capshaw, run a blood panel. Check for GBH." She told the first nurse. She turned back to John. "One of the chaps in the lab said something about suspicious deaths, GBH poisoning ... said a fellow had been in the lab looking into it..."

John waited. "Yes?"

"Are you the fellow?"

"No." John said with a brief smile. "He is." He indicated Sherlock. 

"Maybe he was on to something." The doctor said. "Maybe he was targeted."

John nodded – he'd been thinking the same thing.

Sherlock was admitted. The process took several hours – John stayed with him, fretting about what damage the GBH and the concussion together could wreak on Sherlock's brain. 

"I'm here." John told the still figure when they were alone, taking his hand. "It's John, I'm here with you, Sherlock. I'll be with you the whole time. You're safe now. No one will hurt you while I'm here.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm sorry I left you alone here. I shouldn't have – with a killer on the loose! I... I was... remember that night, before you died – left, before you left – when we kissed. You ran. You got scared and you ran, that night and then you ran right off the roof of St. Barts... 

"Tonight, when you told me that you loved me, how much you loved me... how you wanted us to be together... you scared me. I wanted to run. I shouldn't have left you alone here, but I ... I...

"I'm so.... so useless now. Useless, stupid, scared... I don't deserve you. I don't... I remember, after I was shot, I couldn't wait to get out of the army... but at the same time, I dreaded leaving the army... I wanted to settle down, marry, get a job... or I didn't want to, I thought I SHOULD want to. I keep wondering when I'll be ready to settle down... but maybe I never will. I'll always be a pathetic, adrenaline junkie. 

"Maybe I have to go cold turkey. Quit you... quit running around after you... but when you were dead... all I wanted was to have you back. I could have settled down. But I didn't. I started seeing Shane, but all I wanted was you..."

John wiped away the tear that had wet his cheek with shaking fingers.

"God, I love you! I bloody love you, Sherlock." John whispered. "And I... I WANT you! It's not decent how much I want you. Your skin, your mouth... I want to kiss you... touch you... your back arched, your beautiful arse pushing back, desperate for my cock... the way you want me, like there's nothing you've ever wanted more..."

John closed his eyes and laid his head back against the chair. He interlaced his fingers with Sherlock's limp ones and pulled it into his lap. 

"I'll never let you go." He said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Shane has a novel idea. And John makes a shocking discovery!


	8. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is SO complicated!

**John heard the phone ringing from far away. He stirred fitfully.**

"Mike." It was Shane's voice sounding distant and slightly perplexed. "Hello."

**John's consciousness swam up to the surface, to the barrier between sleep and wakefulness. He wanted to dive back down into oblivion. But reaching the surface prevented it.**

"Erm, yeah...I see him now." John heard Shane say. "He's had a tough couple of weeks."

**He's talking about me. John realized.**

"He's sleeping – he was up all night, I don't want to wake him...."

**Mike Stamford had called Shane. John had been ignoring Mike's texts ever since he set up the new phone Shane had gotten him.**

"Erm...he will be."

**But John was surprised that Mike had actually called Shane. He must be worried...**

"It's complicated."

**No. It was incredibly simple. John was now crippled.**

"He's been in hospital."

**John hadn't felt up to explaining what had happened to Mike – or anyone. Nor could he pretend everything was normal.**

"No, he's not sick. Mike." Shane's voice was low and serious. "John was attacked. He's recovering, but there's some permanent damage."

**'Permanent damage.' Yes, John thought. I'm permanently damaged now.**

"Really, he's mostly ok... but he lost a hand. It had to be amputated."

**John could hear Mike's exclamation through the phone.**

"I just want you to be prepared when you see him. He's not really keen on talking about it."

**That's good, John told himself. Mike can tell our other friends, spread the word. They can all make believe that nothing had changed when he met them next... pretend they didn't pity him.**

"I'm... I'm not really clear on all the details. He really doesn't talk about it." Shane told Mike.

**I don't want to think about Moran and his bloody dungeon ever again.**

"Mike... Mike, I have to go. I'll tell John you called... yes, I'll tell him. He'll get in touch when he's feeling up to it.... OK... bye."

Shane was quiet for a moment. Then he sighed. "I didn't mean to wake you." He said.

"You didn't." John replied. "Thanks for talking to Mike."

"Of course. I brought bagels and coffee. Have you eaten anything?"

"Shane... you're amazing." John roused himself from the recliner, stretched feeling the myriad aches and kinks from sleeping on the hospital chair, and poured a cup of coffee from the thermos. 

Was he going to do to Shane what Angus' boyfriend had done to him? It wasn't exactly analogous – Angus had been with Taz for many years, John had been seeing Shane for a year. They hadn't made any commitments stronger than an agreement that they were boyfriends. That they were exclusive.

An agreement John promptly broke as soon as Sherlock came back.

And Shane had just as promptly forgiven him. What was it he'd said? He'd never been too bothered about monogamy... 

Shane walked up behind John and began massaging his shoulders. It felt wonderful. 

"How long will he be out?" Shane asked.

John looked over at the bed. The steady rhythm of the ventilator punctuated by electronic heartbeats proved Sherlock was very much alive. But he looked terribly helpless. 

"I don't know. The GBH is out of his system by now, but the concussion complicates things." John said. "Thank you for coming. I can't leave him alone here again."

"It wasn't your fault, John."

"It was entirely my fault – I caused the concussion, I brought him back here, I left him vulnerable..."

Shane's arms closed around his chest, holding him in a comforting embrace. "Ok, it's a little bit your fault. But most of the blame belongs to the crazy murderer."

John chuckled briefly. He relaxed into Shane's arms, enjoying the feel of the other man's breath against his neck. His troubles were still there but Shane had always been able to make John feel calm.

"John." Shane said softly. John thought he heard a note of apprehension in his voice. "Now isn't the time for you to make big decisions. With your injury, you have enough to deal with now."

"Ok." John said uneasily.

"I'm not sure how to say this." 

"Are you breaking up with me?" John asked. He felt tense again, his jaw aching with it. He felt profoundly confused – he'd thought he'd made a decision, and Shane ending their relationship would make it easy for John... but he felt incredibly sad at the thought of losing this gangly writer with the floppy hair. How could he hold two people in his heart at once?

"No, of course not. John, I love you – I don't want to lose you."

"I don't want to lose you either!" John blurted. He turned in Shane's embrace and wrapped his arms around his boyfriend, burying his face in Shane's neck. He smelled warm and familiar – a scent John remembered finding deeply erotic, though now he felt it only distantly.

"I miss you!" Shane whispered, his lips in John's hair, his grip tightening. 

John's eyes stung and he squeezed them shut, clinging to Shane. "I know. I'm sorry..."

"No, don't apologize. With what you've been through... what I'm trying to say... very awkwardly...." Shane chuckled self-deprecatingly, then stopped and took a deep breath. "John, you don't have to choose between Sherlock and me. You can be with him, I don't mind. I know you love him."

"Shane...?"

"No, I mean it. I love you, John. I want to be with you. And I know you care about me too. Sherlock... Sherlock doesn't have to change that... doesn't have to change us." Shane kissed John's temple. John could feel him trembling. "If your stay in hospital showed me anything, it showed that there's room for both of us..."

"You can't be serious."

Shane leaned back and met John's eye. "Why not? John... you slept with him before. I thought it would bother me, but it really didn't. It just made me want you more... maybe that means I'm... strange... or a bad person..."

"You're not a bad person!" John protested. "I appreciate what you're trying to do... but I don't see how it could possibly work. Even if... even if I thought I could handle it... you don't know Sherlock. He's... selfish..."

Shane laughed out loud. "He's incredibly selfish!" His laughter died and he touched John's face gently. "Maybe that's why you SHOULD keep me around – to have something of your own, something that has nothing to do with him."

John was taken aback – Shane had named his biggest fear regarding Sherlock. It had been a struggle to hold onto things important to him – that weren't important to Sherlock – before he'd 'died,' when they HADN'T been lovers... it would be so much harder now...

And Shane had known. Shane knew him – knew that John was drawn to Sherlock, that John wanted him. And despite their short acquaintance, Shane could see Sherlock clearly as well. He could see that Sherlock would take whatever John gave and want more. He could see Sherlock's restless insatiability, his desire to consume everything that was John. And he could see that John wanted it as much as he feared it.

"Give it a try." Shane said, his voice carefully neutral. "It may not work, but it will at least give you time to heal and decide what YOU want."

"Sherlock will hate it."

Shane smiled hopefully at 'will.' "He'll live with it if it means he can be with you."

John looked back over at the figure on the bed, curled in the fetal position – a position that John himself had helped the nurses achieve, carefully moving Sherlock's limbs as they had rolled him onto his side. The memory flooded John with tender feelings.

John felt more confused than ever. "Would you see other people too?"

"No." Shane said thoughtfully. "Not for the initial experiment, anyway. If it doesn't work as well as I hope, we could... renegotiate..."

John nodded. "Have you been thinking about this long?" He asked.

Shane shrugged. "Since you slept with him..." His manner turned sincere, his eyes sad. "I don't know if this will work. Sherlock... he doesn't make it easy to like him... but I... I don't want to lose you, John..."

"Oh, Shane...!"

"Wait... before anything else, kiss me." 

John watched Shane visibly bite back the word, 'please.' He smiled at the taller man and pulled a chair out from the wall. "Sit." He said.

Shane nodded and sat. He was trembling again. John straddled his lap, facing him – now he was slightly taller. He took Shane's face in his hand (ignoring, for the moment, the awkwardness of not knowing what to do with his left arm – he rested it on Shane's shoulder) and kissed him. His lips were soft, the stubble scraping against his cheek.

John had meant to kiss him once, maybe twice, a reassuring kiss. He'd suggested the chair because with everything else – his injury, his raw nerves, his surging anger – he hadn't wanted to strain to reach the taller man's mouth.

But now, the heat of Shane's breath, his tongue, his slow kisses... enjoying the feeling of Shane's hands on his flanks, of them traveling to grip his buttocks. John's fingers were a fist in Shane's hair. He pulled Shane's head back for a moment, breaking the kiss, just to show him who was in charge. Shane's small noise of arousal was gratifying and John kissed him again, deeply. Shane's skin was hot, his mouth lush and eager. 

As they kissed, John felt a seed of passion take root and begin to grow – a little seedling in his groin that he could nurture. He wasn't hard, but John's cock was taking notice, it was willing to participate. John thought it wouldn't take much for his blood to run high. His relief was heady – almost an arousal all its own – and it spurred his attentions to Shane. 

John knew what Shane liked, how to tease him, how to kiss him – where to kiss him. It didn't surprise John to feel Shane's prick jutting firmly against his inner thigh. He flexed his legs, applying pressure and Shane moaned through their kiss.

"You're doing THIS HERE!?" 

John jumped up in surprise – he hadn't heard anyone come into the room. 

Shane was bright red, his eyes dilated, his trousers tented lewdly. After a beat, he stood so abruptly the chair tipped over and clattered loudly to the floor. Shane didn't turn, he walked away from the door to the far wall and leaned against it, trying to recover himself with a modicum of privacy.

"Angus." John said, picking up the chair with deliberate care. "Cheers, mate." He said wryly. "Did you even go home?" The nurse's expression was intense – that predatory hunger John had glimpsed earlier, mingled with outrage. He was thinking about how his boyfriend had left him, not John and Shane.

Angus Church opened his mouth to retort angrily, then thought better of it and pursed his lips together tightly. He strode over to Sherlock and looked balefully at the unconscious man. "What happened?" He asked. 

"He was poisoned." John said. "The same way the other two were – Fraser and Krazinsky."

"He survived."

"I found him in time. I realized what must have happened."

"Did you catch... whoever's doing this?"

"No."

Church flipped through Sherlock's chart. "GBH." He said, his voice flat.

"What?" John thought he heard something strange in Angus' voice. "Do you know something?"

"Oh, erm, no... Taz used GBH sometimes... recreationally..." The big man shook off his melancholy. "Sherlock hasn't regained consciousness?"

"No. The concussion, I guess."

"You're worried."

"Of course I'm worried!" John cried, the dread pressing in on him again.

Angus' gaze flicked to Shane, now looking studiously out the window. He didn't say it, but his meaning was clear: you have a funny way of showing your concern.

"Ta, mate." John said, flexing his fingers in anger, sounding like he was doing anything but thanking the man. "Listen..." John stopped the tirade before it started. He turned to Shane instead, indicated Sherlock. "Shane, don't leave him, yeah? Keep him safe."

"Yeah." Shane agreed.

John took hold of Angus' arm – the man was SOLID. Automatically, His soldier's mind started going through the moves to take someone like this down. He might have to take a blow or two but John's training could win out over brute strength – the trick was to be faster and to never let your guard down. A quick punch to the solar plexus – or the throat – to incapacitate him momentarily, grab the arm and swing him round fast twisting the arm behind him, no wall nearby so trip him onto his knees and twist the arm up over his head...

John stopped himself abruptly. He had one hand and a still-healing stump, he wasn't going to subdue a child, let alone a husky mesomorph... why would he want to take Angus down anyway?

He jerked his head towards the hallway, letting go the nurse's arm and followed the man out of the room.

"You don't know anything about my relationships." John hissed when they reached the corridor. "It's not your business."

"You are going to crush one of those men. Rip his heart out. You don't know what that feels like!"

"Of course I know what that feels like! Do you think you're the only person who's ever lost someone?!"

"But YOU got him back! You didn't really lose him!"

"Angus, I've been dumped – long before I met Sherlock! More than once! Everyone's been dumped! Everyone who's ever been in love." John huffed, his anger was fading. "Taz really did a number on you... but I'm not Taz. This –" John gestured at Sherlock's doorway. "This isn't anything like what happened to you." He squeezed the husky nurse's arm. "You have to trust me. This is my life. My problem, not yours."

Angus nodded but his mouth was tight. "All right, John. Take care of your problem." He said and walked away down the hall.

Jesus! John shook his head as he watched his friend retreat. 'Taz' had really screwed up Angus! 

...but he was right... Angus was right – John shouldn't be carrying on with Shane in front of comatose Sherlock. 

Comatose. The word was heavy, an anvil pressing on his lungs. His heart. It had been lurking in his mind for hours now... why he'd been so willing to let Shane distract him.

John didn't want to face either of them right now, but he couldn't leave. He fished his phone out of his pocket and googled the first thing that came into his head: 'Taz Sheffield "Angus Church."'

He was surprised at the results – John clicked on the first one. 

It was an obituary. 

"Terrence "Taz" Blymore, 29, died May 7, 2013. Taz worked as a physical therapist with The Wednesday, keeping the boys in shape for play. He was popular, well-liked by the players and staff alike, and had many friends.

"When not working, Taz played rugby with local team The Half-Wednesday. He was passionate about sport and helped to found the Rainbow League, an LGBT, coed rugby league consisting of five teams in Sheffield, York and Manchester counties. Taz also volunteered with at-risk gay youth at the Sheffield Pride Center, helping teens estranged from their families. "I've been lucky," Taz said. "My family stuck by me, loved me even when the neighbors told them they'd be better off shot of me. Because that's what families are made to do – to love their children. Unconditionally. I want these boys and girls to know that even though their parents have failed them, they're still worthy of love."

"Taz followed his beloved partner of many years, Angus P. Church, to London in 2010. There he worked at St. Chrysostom's Hospital's physical therapy department. He continued to play and coach rugby and to be active in the LGBT community. On his return to Sheffield last year, The Wednesday were delighted to have him back with the team.

"Taz is survived by his parents, Douglas and Carolyn Blymore, his sister, Nell Smithton, brother-in-law, Robert H. Smithton, his nephew, Alan, a number of cousins, aunts and uncles, and his many loving friends. He is preceded in death by grandparents, Pete and Shirley Blymore, Kenneth Lundblad and R.J. Humphrey."

There was more about the funeral, but John only skimmed it. This was a revelation! Angus' boyfriend had died! After he left Angus? Or is this HOW he 'left.'

The obituary didn't say how so young a man had died – no mention of accident or illness....

John googled the man's full name and studied the results. He found a newspaper report in the Sheffield Sun dated May 9, 2013. 

"The body of a man identified as Terrence 'Taz' Blymore, was found in Olden Road near St. Mary's Church early Saturday morning. The cause of death is unknown pending autopsy, but police on the scene reported that Blymore did not have any visible injuries. A police spokesman declined to speculate whether Blymore's death was related to that of Maxim L. Favreau, a French citizen, who was also found lifeless in the vicinity of St. Mary's three months prior. It was determined that Favreau died of GBH poisoning under suspicious circumstances."

Every hair on John's body stood straight up – he could almost feel the electricity crackling across his skin. GBH poisoning! Suspicious circumstances!

John hastily typed 'Terrence Blymore GBH' into google. And, yes! There it was: Taz HAD died of GBH poisoning as well. The two deaths were investigated jointly and though they didn't say why, police did not think the men had overdosed themselves either purposely or accidentally. 

There was another story in a local queer rag – both men had been gay – speculating about whether this was the work of a serial killer preying on gay men and exhorting the community to be on their guard. They also questioned whether the police were investigating as thoroughly as they would had the victims been straight...

Angus.

Angus had killed his boyfriend. Angus had killed the patients, Fraser and Krazinsky. He'd probably also killed someone named Maxim Favreau. And who knows who else.

Angus!

John had to tell Sherlock! He had to get Sherlock out of here!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter soon! What will happen?!


	9. He Awakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up.

Sherlock had been swimming against the tide, caught in an undertow... swimming and swimming in the endless ocean, buffeted by swells and dragged under, holding his breath until he he simply couldn't any longer then breathing in the salty liquid. He refused to let it kill him. 

Sherlock swam – he had to get to John! He had to tell John something important!

What was it? 

Goodbye. He had to tell John goodbye. Standing on the edge of the roof, watching John climb out of a taxi ten stories below, he had to call John and say goodbye.

But he didn't want to! He LOVED John! 

But that's why he HAD to leave. It would save John's life. That was more important than Sherlock's ridiculous sentiment.

And Sherlock had to get himself under control, had to get back to where he could be friends with John – brothers, able to live in each other's pockets again without lust surging through his veins every time he smelled John's hair or felt the warmth of his hand.... god, he loved John's hands! Broad and square, still tanned from the desert, and so strong, so skillful... he desperately wanted to feel those hands on his body...

One of John's beautiful hands... he'd lost it... it was Sherlock's fault...

What was it that he had to tell John? 

The memory was distant, faint...

"I can't believe I was worried you'd find me out – the great Sherlock Holmes! I thought for sure you knew it was me, that you were just toying with me. I went out of my way to befriend John, to keep tabs on your investigation. But you're like everybody else, too stupid to see what's right in front of your face!"

Sherlock was starting to feel woozy. He wondered idly how much GBH Angus Church had jabbed into his foot. "To be fair, I've been a bit distracted." He mumbled.

"Right. Your beloved John. And his beloved Shane. What you both see in him, I'll never know. There's nothing special about him, is there. He's not good looking or charming. Or rich. There's nothing at all special about him! How a famous author and an infamous detective are both gone on him, I'll never know! He's completely average!

"Obviously..." Sherlock had trouble forming the word, his tongue thick and lugubrious. "You're wrong." John was far from average – Sherlock had seen THAT the first time he set eyes on the former soldier.

"Shane I can almost understand – he's just as homely and boring as John, isn't he. But you! You cut such a dashing figure! You could have anyone, you could have your pick!"

"Dull." Sherlock sniffed.

That stopped the nurse for a moment. "Dull?! Having whoever you want is dull, is it?! I'll have to take your word for it."

"I want John. And I don't have him. You don't have who you want, Church... maybe you don't deserve him."

"You don't know anything about it!"

Sherlock eyed him closely – as closely as he could with this fuzziness in his brain. "You don't have him because you held on too tightly. You're a clinging vine, controlling, gaslighting –"

"You know so much, do you have any idea why you don't have John? Why you'll never have him?"

"Oh yes, of course." Sherlock slurred. "I don't have John because I'm inconsiderate and arrogant. Stupid." He felt compelled to explain himself. Knowing it was the effect of the drug didn't stop the compulsion. "Because I didn't understand ... I was afraid... I left him... lied to him... I don't deserve him..."

"Jesus Christ, shut up! You're pathetic!" Church shook his head in disbelief. "Why did you leave him? Why did you fake your death?"

"To save him. HE would have killed John if I didn't kill myself..."

"I'M going to kill John." Angus asserted. "You can't save him this time – you're already dead, Sherlock."

"No..." Sherlock's vision was blurring. He felt profoundly drunk. "Not John..." He pleaded. "Not John..."

He had tried again to stand up, to call for help, to fight the burly nurse... but the ocean had welled up and taken him into its vast, salty darkness...

But he HAD to warn John! He had to help him! Protect him! He had to swim!

Sherlock wanted to cry with frustration! But the ocean took his tears and they flowed away on currents as salty as the tears themselves ...

He needed another hit. Sherlock needed to score, but he was out of cash, out of things to trade or pawn. His hands were shaking with his need... if he could still them for a few seconds... in the market, the stink of meat in the air, of sweat and garlic, incense and patchouli, he could pass through the crowd, hands steady, bump-hand-in-bulging-pocket-take-wallet-feather-light-apologize-in-plumby-posh-tones-slip-away-disappear...

But his hands were shaking. The heroin was far away, following his salty tears in the salty currents...

He could hear John! 

John was talking to him, his voice, so close, John's hands on his skin. Nothing was better than John's hands on his skin! Sherlock would swim would keep swimming would find the surface and John would hold him...

He HAD to tell John something important!

But Shane was here, John and Shane... Sherlock sank to the bottom and tried to still his shaking hands. He needed a hit, he needed to score, he needed the wonderful, glorious, soaring numbness in his veins...before he jumped...

Sherlock opened his eyes and was blinded by the brightness. He called out – was John really here? Or was he dreaming? But something was wrong with his voice. Something was on him, in him, feeding off of him, stealing his words, his breath... Sherlock clawed at his face trying to dislodge the parasite – the enemy had done this to keep him quiet. To kill him! But Sherlock wouldn't go easily, he struggled against the thing, choking...

The enemy held his hands... Sherlock tried to fight, but he had no strength. There was shouting, it was so loud! Figures looming over him! Voices booming!

"Sherlock! Sherlock, it's me. Calm down, yeah?"

John!

John WAS here! Sherlock felt weak with relief. He tried to tell John... but the thing, the parasite, it was real. He had to get it off!

"No, no, Sherlock, it's a breathing tube. We had to put you on a respirator to keep you breathing. I can take it out, but you have to be still. Sherlock, can you lie still?"

John's face... he was really here... or was it another heroin dream? Sherlock stopped struggling against the thing. He let John – his beautiful, strong hand – calm him. He stared at the ceiling, his head back and John was leaning over him, upside down. 

John pulled and tape tore painfully from Sherlock's cheeks. He took hold of the thing – Sherlock could feel the pressure of John's grip all the way down his throat. Then John grunted in frustration and shifted his position – his left hand, he'd wanted to use both his hands, forgetting he now had only one. Don't give up! Sherlock pleaded silently.

"This will feel strange." John warned, and Sherlock felt something moving, crawling up his airway, scraping against his interior walls. It hurt! He tried not to scream – but it only came out as a moan anyway. "Almost there." John said. Sherlock gagged on the thing, choked and retched and then it was gone from his body, but Sherlock couldn't stop heaving. He tasted vomit and thought sadly that it was the thing with the peas. It seemed wrong his body should reject the thing with the peas.

"Ok, back on your side!" John commanded – Sherlock heard the fear behind the words. "Shane, help me roll him."

Sherlock didn't struggle, he turned onto his side and curled his knees into his chest. John's hand lingered on his shoulder, Sherlock registered THAT despite the convulsions in his body expelling sick into the little trough that appeared under his chin, despite the pain in his chest, spiking with every heave, every breath.

"Sshhh, you're ok." John crooned softly. "Just breathe." Sherlock took a breath, retched through the pain, and another agonizing breath. The heaves slowed and finally stopped. Sherlock felt exhausted.

John brushed the hair back from his face. Sherlock opened his eyes – John looked exhausted too. Dark shadows under his eyes, a day's growth of stubble, rumpled hair and shirt. Concern radiated from from him like an aura.

"John..." Sherlock said, or tried to say – it came out as a croak.

"Do you want some water?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded and immediately John was helping him sit up, supporting his back with his own body. Sherlock took the cup and sipped. His throat was outrageously sore – even more painful than his chest, swallowing was agony. But he managed.

As he sipped, John gently wiped his face with a damp cloth.

Sherlock tried again. "John, it was Church." He croaked. 

"I know." John said. "I know."

Sherlock felt his stomach unknot and realized he'd been anxious about how John would react. "You caught him!" Sherlock crowed.

"No." John said. "Not yet."

"Oh." Sherlock's spirits sank precipitously – from almost giddy relief to the bottom of the ocean in a millisecond. He recognized his body was unwell and it was affecting his brain chemistry – its currents pulling him this way and that. Sherlock closed his eyes against it and immediately felt the tides pull him back into his dream. He struggled against it, forced himself to surface, hating the ocean of sentiment roiling within him. The hate burned through the depression and girded his mood somewhat. The emotional roller coaster left him nauseous anew.

"Wait, what?" Another voice. Shane. "Angus?!"

"Shh!" John shushed him. "He's still on the ward."

"How long have you known?"

"Not long." John said. "He told me some things about himself, his ex-boyfriend. I was curious, I googled him. He said his ex was living in Sheffield – but he was killed by a GBH overdose! It's not a coincidence."

There was silence in the room for a long moment. Sherlock sipped more water. Finally Shane spoke. "Ok. What do we do?"

"We have to get him out of here." John was talking about Sherlock.

"But... he needs to be in hospital."

"I'm perfectly fine." Sherlock croaked feeling indignant. He didn't need Shane to interfere.

“Shut up.” John told him. He was still letting Sherlock lean against his chest, supporting him to sit. “We’ll take him somewhere else. It’s not safe here.” John regarded Sherlock for a few seconds. “Go grab one of those wheelchairs at the end of the hall.” He told Shane. “I’ll get him ready.” John’s full attention returned to Sherlock. “Let’s get this out.” He said, disconnecting the I.V. 

“Wait.” Said Sherlock. “Is it morphine?”

John scoffed, irritated. “Of course not.”

Sherlock tore at the tape keeping the needle in his flesh and tossed the whole thing aside.

“Can you stand?” John asked. “I’m right here, I won’t let you fall.”

Sherlock thought John’s concern was misplaced and would have haughtily told him so if not for the heat and solidity of John’s body against his own. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed ... and found himself half-swooning, head spinning, clutched in John’s arms.

“Easy there.” John said. “Take it slowly now.”

Sherlock nodded weakly. He noted that he was naked under the thin gown. He scrabbled at it, and then at the circular sensors stuck to his chest. He wanted it all off!

The gown dropped to the floor – Sherlock was unselfconscious of his nakedness, simply noting the bruises blooming on his chest, the raw cuts on his hip, but it also exposed another barrier to a fast getaway. A catheter.

“Oh, right.” John said. Swearing under his breath he left Sherlock on the bed and fetched cglived, syringes, saline and alcohol pads from an equipment drawer. Sherlock watched, fascinated, as John, using his hand his left elbow, and his teeth, methodically donned a glove and went through the process of removing the thing from his urethra. It left him sore and feeling somewhat neutered.

Sherlock had barely time to think about that because John was slipping his feet into his pants and sliding them up his legs. Sherlock’s trousers followed – Sherlock watched from some remove, wondering idly why John was bothering.

“Ok, time to stand up.” John said, supporting him once again. It took a moment, but eventually Sherlock was standing, an arm over John’s shoulders keeping him upright. He was very conscious of John’s arm around his waist.

As he fastened his trousers, Sherlock’s stomach began to churn again, threatening to expel whatever was left – or nothing, just heave vainly in protest – and his head was beginning to ache abominably. It’s just a hangover, he told himself, completely normal the morning after a drugs overdose. On top of a concussion.

“He’ll be watching.” Sherlock told John.

“I know.” John sounded grim. “I called Lestrade a few minutes ago. I’m going to make sure you and Shane get out and then keep an eye on Angus until he gets here.” He handed Sherlock his vest. “Put this on, yeah?”

Sherlock turned the garment in his hands, frowning. “We should lock the door, hole up here until the police arrive.” Just standing up had taken almost all of his energy. And Sherlock didn’t want to be separated from John. The thought made him feel desperate.

Is this how John had felt in hospital – so happy and comforted to see Sherlock (and Shane, he added grudgingly) – but with a complete lack of the lust that always before had accompanied John’s presence? He still wanted this man to touch him, to hold him, he still wanted John to be his... Sherlock was amazed by love, by its depth and breadth, its greediness and its selflessness... Every time he thought he understood it, some new facet was revealed and he realize he knew nothing.

“Sherlock? Sherlock?” John was supporting him more fully now – when had that happened? “Thought I’d lost you for a second. If you’re up to it, we should move. Staying here... we’re too vulnerable. I don’t want him anywhere near you.” He yanked the vest Sherlock had managed to don down to meet his trousers.

“Because you love me.” Sherlock said. Then he frowned again. “Do you love me? Why do you love me? I don’t understand ‘love,’ John.”

“Not now, Sherlock.” John said, but he squeezed Sherlock’s bicep with his hand whilst continuing to support him.

Shane returned with a wheelchair and John started to maneuver Sherlock into it. "Jesus, you're heavy." He muttered.

"You're sending me away with him." Sherlock observed sourly.

"With Shane, yes." John said. "This is the second time he's helped save you, so don't be a dick."

Sherlock looked at Shane, really looked at him. He saw the set of his jaw, the way his eyes kept sliding towards John, the way he hid behind his tousled flop of hair and hunched into his rumpled shirt. 

"He thinks he's losing you." Sherlock deduced. "Is he?" He asked John, his slow and looping thoughts recognizing that was significant, but not quite landing on why.

"Didn't I JUST ask you not to be a dick?" John asked, exasperated, but also worried. Why was he worried? 

As Sherlock tried to puzzle that out, John took Shane across the room. Sherlock couldn't hear what they were saying but their body language was unmistakable – John's hand (his beautiful, strong hand) pushed the floppy fringe off Shane's face and lingered on his neck. Then John kissed him and Shane's arms wrapped around John's back and they clung together for a long moment. John was reassuring him, trying to assuage his fears.

His head hurt. Sherlock closed his eyes and lay back in the wheelchair.

And then he was falling. He'd jumped from St. Bart's and he was falling and he couldn't stop the tears from falling around him – it was a mistake! He could find another way to save John, to foil Moriarty! A way that didn't entail leaving John behind. 

But falling is falling, there's no way back up to the roof. All Sherlock had now was regret. An ocean of regret. A tsunami of regret. He would drown in this regret.

He should have stayed. 

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Are you ok?"

Sherlock opened his eyes. Shane was leaning over him looking concerned. He glanced around – they were in a lift and John was not with them.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"You're crying."

Sherlock wiped furiously at the wetness on his cheeks, the deep well of regret threatening to overcome him again. "It's just the knock on the head." He said defensively. "It aches terribly."

The elevator door dinged and opened behind him and Shane's eyes opened wide. Sherlock squirmed in the chair to see what Shane was looking at – it was Angus Church, looming in the doorway, blocking the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Sherlock and Shane are kidnapped!


	10. The Sub Basement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angus Church has kidnapped Sherlock and Shane.

“Erm...hey, Angus...” Shane started. 

Nurse Angus Church stepped into the lift and inserted a key into a keyhole on the button panel. He turned the key and pressed an unlabeled button – keeping an eye on the two men the whole time. The door closed.

“Don’t bother.” Sherlock told Shane. Despite his lackadaisical tone, adrenaline jolted through Sherlock’s system. It flushed the fuzz from his brain, sharpened his thoughts and envigoured his limbs. There was nothing like fear to cure the common concussion. “He knows we know.”

The burly man’s face was altered, no longer the outgoing, acerbic nurse, Angus looked cold, angry, his eyes dark.

Shane nodded at the lift buttons. “Where are we going?” He asked.

“Sub basement.” The nurse replied. 

“What’s down there?”

Angus smirked. “It’ll be a long time before anyone finds your bodies.”

This is crazy!" Shane protested.

“Are you going to jab us both?” Sherlock asked huskily, his raw throat protesting. He settled himself into the wheelchair again, turning his back on the burly nurse. “More difficult when there’s two.” 

“Can you even stand? I don’t think you’ll be much of a challenge. But I brought this, just in case HE decides to give me any trouble.”

Shane’s face paled. “He has a knife.” He told Sherlock. “A scalpel.”

“Mm.” Sherlock replied weakly, pressing his knee against Shane's leg to calm him (he'd watched Moran bleed out, the sight of the blade would be causing a storm of emotions). “It’s easy to inject, innit... not so easy to kill with a knife. You can’t walk away whilst your victim just ...falls asleep ...and dies. You’re there, slashing and stabbing, feeling the flesh under your blade. Hitting bone. There’s blood everywhere, spurting, pooling. All over you. So much blood. It’s harder than you can imagine.”

The lift clanged to a halt. “How would you know?” Angus Church asked skeptically.

“Experience.” Sherlock croaked, leaning tiredly back in the wheelchair, still facing away from the nurse. 

“Is that supposed to frighten me?”

Sherlock shrugged carelessly – the motion caused a sharp pang in his bruised ribs. The lift doors opened.

“You, the boyfriend,” Angus said to Shane. “Wheel him out here slowly.”

Shane’s eyes, round with shock, had not left the nurse since he’d entered the lift. Now they flicked questioningly to Sherlock.

“Do it.” Sherlock rasped. “Keep the wheelchair between you and him. And run when I say ‘run!’” He added in a whisper.

Shane frowned. But he carefully – keeping a wary eye on Angus – stepped around the wheelchair and pulled it from the lift. 

The light from the open doors of the elevator didn’t penetrate far into the blackness of the sub basement. What Sherlock could see was dingy – old lino that had been shoddily mopped some time ago, scuffs on the wall, hoses and cords snaking into the darkness. He had the sense that they were in a vast space, not a hallway or antechamber. The air was both chilly and stuffy.

Angus Church pulled a dangling string and a bare bulb lit just as the lift doors closed. It hung from a loose wire and swung back and forth making the shadows dance crazily. Sherlock examined what he could see of the room. There were stacks and stacks of chairs, thick with dust, a cluster of matressless hospital beds, broken I.V. stands and outdated equipment and machinery at whose function Sherlock could only guess. The hoses disappeared into the pile and emerged on the other side, attached to a metal block six feet tall, a generator or air conditioner or some sort of building mechanical that hummed. 

Lots of places to hide, Sherlock thought. And lots of places to hide a body. Or two.

“Stand up,” Church commanded Sherlock. 

Sherlock grimly stood thinking he should feign weakness – only to find himself clutched awkwardly in Shane’s arms, the wheelchair still between them. “Dizzy,” He mumbled, trying to push himself upright using Shane’s chest.

Shane grunted with the effort of standing still whilst Sherlock used him as a prop. “He can’t walk – he can’t even stand!” Shane snapped. “Let me push him.” He thrust the detective back into the wheelchair.

“I’m perfectly fine!” Sherlock insisted, standing up again, swaying. Suddenly Shane was jerking him upright by the arm – painfully – and then shoving him back into the chair.

The nurse scoffed impatiently. Then he laughed, seemingly amused by Sherlock’s weakness. He was easy for Sherlock to read – transparent – Church thought he would have no difficulties in disposing of the wounded detective. He assumed Sherlock would be easy to kill in his current state. And frankly, he was right.

“Push ‘im, then, slowly.” Church said. “Down there. I’m right behind you.”

They started down a path that took them into the piles of discarded equipment. The light from the bulb outside the lift didn’t penetrate far into the maze, just enough to cast shadows that danced and loomed as they made their way deeper into the dank sub basement.

“Why are we doing this?!” Shane whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “Why are we walking placidly to our deaths?!”

"We're waiting for our opportunity."

"For what?!"

“No talking!” Angus boomed. He didn’t seem worried at all that someone might hear him. The thick accumulation of dust and grit told why – this sub level of this hospital was all but forgotten. Someone must maintain the mechanicals, but no one ventured far into the mountains of junk. 

No one except a killer.

It was brilliant, really, a bolt hole here. The murderous nurse would gather his things at the end of his shift, put on his coat and get his bag out of his locker, he’d climb in the lift and if he were alone, insert the key that gave him access to this all-but-forgotten level. Somewhere down here, Sherlock was certain, Church had a hidden place to sleep, a cache of food and water and some mechanism for keeping tabs on the outside world. Probably a pay-as-you-go smartphone and wifi dongle. It would be nothing to wait until the wee hours then take the lift back up to critical care.

“Why Fraser and Krazinsky?” Sherlock asked suddenly. “Why them? It wasn’t random.”

“I put them out of their misery.” Church said. “I did them a favor.”

“Simon Fraser was on the mend!” Sherlock protested.

“Didn’t matter. He was still miserable. Falling ill robbed him of his peace of mind.”

“He was ...depressed.”

“Yes.”

“How did you manage to jab him where you did?” Shane interjected, his curiosity momentarily outweighing caution. “Under his testicles?”

“He seduced him.” Sherlock said.

The nurse chuckled. “I seduced him. He was fretting about his sex life – invalids aren’t sexual beings. And he was an invalid. So tiresome. You know, how John feels now, like he'll never feel attractive, that no one will ever want him again."

"John doesn't...!" Sherlock protested.

"No, he does." Shane said quietly. "We talked about it."

Sherlock felt a pang, a stab of pain so deep and sudden it took his breath away. Jealousy. 

It was good, Sherlock told himself sternly, that John had someone he could talk to, who understood. Who could help him. Sherlock would simply have told John to stop being an idiot – perhaps he even had. 

He knew he lacked empathy. He'd always found it difficult to understand other people's problems and impossible to care. But he'd never loved anyone before.... maybe he could learn. His own short sojourn in hospital had left him sexless. He was wrung out, his body aching, his recently catheterized cock just another bit of flesh that hurt...

Oh, John!

"I reassured him.” Church was saying. "A little massage and a quick hand job... easy-peasy. The pathologist didn't see the mark – no one did until you poked your nose in."

“And Tamara Krazinsky?” Sherlock asked, forcing his attention back to the murderous nurse. “Was she depressed too?”

“Terribly. She moaned and whinged constantly. She was an athlete you know. She would never have been able to complete at an elite level again. She cried herself to sleep every night.”

“YOU’RE depressed, Church.” Sherlock said. “That’s been obvious since the first moment I laid eyes on you. But you don’t take your own remedy?”

“When I can help so many people? I can help you, Sherlock. Your misery over John, I can cure it.”

“I don’t want to be cured.” Sherlock said, noting the stiffness of Shane’s posture, the way he gripped the wheelchair, his knuckles white with tension. “No matter what John does or doesn’t do, I’m better off for loving him.”

“The pain, though, when he chooses someone else – and he will choose someone else. If not not Shane now, eventually there WILL be someone else. You can’t hold him.”

“Like you couldn’t hold your man?” Sherlock asked. “Why did you kill him? If you loved him?”

“He was mine.” Church said simply.

“He left you BECAUSE you held on too tightly.” Sherlock said as forcefully as his sore throat allowed. “You were so afraid to lose him that you suffocated him. He HAD to leave you.”

“No! It wasn’t right. He didn’t know what he did to me.”

"So you showed him."

"Yes."

Sherlock could see there was no reasoning with the man, but he had to keep him talking. “John... I knew when I came back that he would almost certainly have someone else. I expected him to have found a woman – someone dull like the girlfriends he brought round when we lived together.”

“How did you stand that? Seeing him with them?”

“I didn’t care. John never chose any of them over me.” Sherlock took a breath, he hated true confessions – especially in front of John’s increasingly uncomfortable boyfriend - he could hear Shane shuffling. “I didn’t expect that he’d fall in love with another man... Angus, the worst has already happened – John replaced me... easily, it seems... I have nothing to give him that he doesn’t already have with Shane. Shane... he has more to give than I..." Sherlock faltered, feeling the truth of his words. "And what I’ve cost him... the months he spent mourning ....he lost his hand because of his association with me. And he could have easily lost his life... “ 

Sherlock was babbling. They’d stopped deep in the basement, in a cul de sac formed by a stack of rusting industrial dryers, a mountain of beige computer towers, monitors and associated ephemera, and what appeared to be a dismantled hyperbaric chamber filled with leg braces. Everything had an impressively thick layer of dust and filth.

"No..." Shane began.

Sherlock cut him off, filling the space between them and Church with words. “I don’t want to own John, guard him jealously, suspicious of every look or word... I want him to be with me because that’s where HE wants to be.”

“You can’t tell me you aren’t jealous of this one?!” The nurse gestured at Shane. Sherlock glanced at him, then wished he hadn't – Shane was regarding him with unrestrained pity.

“Of course I am. But so what? I don’t want to DIE over it. I don’t want John to die if I can’t have him!”

“But I do.” Church growled. “It’s time.” He pulled a syringe from his pocket and flicked the cap off the needle. 

“Me first.” Said Sherlock, holding out his arms as the big nurse advanced. “Or do you prefer the foot?” He kicked out violently, gripping the arms of the chair to propel himself forwards and connecting with the side of Church’s knee.

Angus staggered, howling, into the hill of old computers, his knee buckling. 

“Run!” Sherlock told Shane, pushing himself onto his feet.

Shane grabbed hold of Sherlock’s arm and pulled it over his own shoulders. “C’mon!” They stumbled forward together, back down the winding path through the piles of junk, Sherlock’s bare feet slapping against the filthy lino.

The adrenaline had given him purpose and clarity, but Sherlock was still weak. He needed Shane’s wiry strength to support him, to keep him moving forwards. He was surprised at the power in Shane’s skinny form – and he thought bitterly that this must be what John felt when they touched...

Suddenly Church was right behind them, limping and swearing. Sherlock pictured the syringe in his hand ... and the scalpel. He had never missed John and his gun as much as he did right now.

Sherlock tripped – almost bringing Shane down with him. He had a second to shove Shane away and then Church was on him. They wrestled, Sherlock desperately trying to squirm into a better position under the burly man’s crushing weight. He felt the needle bite his flesh and knocked it painfully away before the plunger could be depressed.

Then Church was reeling – and roaring at something above him. Shane! Shane had broken a keyboard over the nurse’s head. 

Sherlock crab walked away from Church, scrabbling in the dust, as Shane wielded the bottom half of an I.V. stand, poking and threatening Angus with it. The nurse was like a bull, snorting and swiping at them with the scalpel, the metal rod in Shane’s hands the only thing keeping him at bay.

Church grabbed the I.V. stand and twisted it out of Shane’s hands. Now there was nothing between them, nothing to stop Church’s scalpel. 

That moment on the lift, when the door dinged and opened, when he saw Shane’s face change and felt his head clearing, felt the ocean recede and his thoughts take on that sharp adrenaline edge, Sherlock, his back to Church, had activated his phone and speed dialed his emergency number – it was still John, even after the years away. (He hadn’t had the heart to change it.) In a brief glance, he saw that John had answered and pressed the button on the side, muting the volume so Church wouldn’t hear John – but John COULD hear (Sherlock hoped) who they were with and where they were going. He slipped it in his pocket without disconnecting.

How John would find the sub basement, how he would get there, that didn’t trouble Sherlock. He had absolute faith in John’s resourcefulness.

So, sprawled on the filthy floor at Shane’s feet watching the juggernaut-like advance of the crazed man with the blade, Sherlock felt no surprise when John hurtled out of the darkness and with a startling economy of motion, disarmed the bigger man and sent him head-first into a wall of old lockers. Untethered from any support, they tipped over and Church’s momentum carried him forward until he was splayed across the rusty metal on his belly. There John pinned him, his left elbow on the back of the nurse’s neck, his hand twisting an arm up behind his spine savagely. 

“Shane!” John said tightly, and Shane was next to him, helping him subdue Church. “Over here!” John shouted. 

“It’s a bloody maze down here!” It was Lestrade’s voice echoing off the piles of junk. “Where are you?” 

Soon enough Sherlock saw the coppers’ torches approaching and then the wending path was crammed with bodies, handcuffing Angus Church, taking him away. John knelt in front of Sherlock – he’d pulled his knees into his chest for warmth, but hadn’t yet tried to stand up. 

“I haven’t told Lestrade,” John said. “That you’re alive...that you're here.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s feet were cold, the cement floor under the lino leeching the heat from his body. The adrenaline was gone and Sherlock was crashing hard. He wanted to curl up on the floor and sleep. He tried to listen to Shane describing how Church had cornered them in the lift.

“You and...?” Lestrade asked. 

Shane glanced down at Sherlock and Lestrade followed his gaze. Sherlock was black with filth from the floor, his white vest stained, his arms streaked, his hands and feet completely covered and gritty. He imagined it had got on his face as well.

“Bloody fuck...” Lestrade said under his breath as he stared at the gaunt figure on the ground.

In a swift movement, Lestrade was on him, kneeling in the filth next to John, touching Sherlock’s arm, shining his torch in Sherlock's eyes and looking hard at his face. Then Sherlock was enveloped in the man’s arms. It was... nice. Lestrade’s coat was rough against his cheek, his arms strong and welcoming. He smelled like cigarettes and fried food. 

"You're a twat." Lestrade said in his ear. Sherlock couldn't disagree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAMF John lives!


	11. Having it all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John chooses not to choose.

John was chuffed.

Sherlock smiled to himself. It was two days since John had taken Angus Church down, grabbing the wrist of the hand that held the scalpel and pulling, hard, whilst simultaneously elbowing the bigger man in the throat. The impact caused him to drop the scalpel. Disarmed, it had been child's play to twist the arm around and up, spinning Church so he faced away from John, then shoving him into the wall of lockers. 

John had doubted his abilities after losing his hand but Sherlock had never doubted John. He had suspected Angus of the murders – it was the time it took to discover Simon Fraser that was the clue, Church knew the deceased Fraser didn't need care and he hadn't wanted to be the one to find him dead, so the body had lain there for hours. Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending on your perspective) the nurse had been smart enough to stop killing as soon as he realized who Sherlock was.

Sherlock was rather ashamed of how long it had taken him to work that out. (He really WAS distracted.) But when he had, he hadn't mentioned his suspicions to John. Sherlock hadn't been certain. And if John worked it out himself maybe he'd regain some of the self-confidence he'd lost with his hand. And he HAD worked it out himself – although Sherlock hadn't expected his own life to be endangered in the process. But Church was caught, thanks to John. 

Sherlock had ended up back in his hospital bed. John and Shane had gone with the police to make their statements, but Sherlock's doctors were still concerned about how the GBH might have exacerbated his concussion. And he'd managed to fracture his tibia when he fell. At first he'd thought his inability to walk was simply more lightheadedness, but the aching pain in his shin soon told him otherwise. 

Sherlock had a long afternoon of tests and scans – before they'd even let him wash up.

When they were finally done with him, Sherlock had stood in the shower for a half hour, scrubbing the dirt from his skin. When he emerged, Lestrade was there. He listened quietly to Sherlock's explanation for faking his death and leaving town.

"Moriarty was going to kill ME?" Lestrade asked. "I didn't think he knew I existed."

"You arrested him."

"He never said more than three words to me. Didn't look at me twice."

Sherlock shrugged. "You were another wedge to use against me. He exploited all my sentimental attachments."

"Oh, erm... I like you too."

Sherlock laughed.

"I brought some case files." Lestrade told him, proffering a sheaf of folders. "Just a couple that I thought you could help us put to bed."

Sherlock had accepted the files hungrily.

"So... where have you been? Traveling?" Lestrade was interested to hear about Sherlock's adventures over the past two years – and Sherlock found himself warming to the subject. It was too sensitive to speak of with John, but Lestrade didn't take Sherlock's absence personally.

John returned in the evening, clean and freshly shaved, looking like he'd had at least a little sleep. He brought takeaway curry and clean clothes for Sherlock.

"You've spent a lot of time in this hospital." Sherlock observed as they ate. 

"Too much." John grumbled. He kept his left arm down, as if his hand were in his lap.

"Yes, way too much." Sherlock felt guilty.

"No, don't make that face." John said sharply. "None of this is your fault."

That wasn't true. It was all Sherlock's fault. If he hadn't dragged the army doctor along on his cases, John would be whole now. Clinically depressed perhaps, but whole. Sherlock would most likely be dead – several times over – but John would have both hands.

John stayed until Sherlock fell asleep. 

Sherlock woke the next morning alone, aching all over, and feeling crabby. They had given him barely any pain medication. He abused the nurses – they were all stupid! – but it did nothing to improve his mood – or to get him more drugs. He wrote a long text to John, a rant about the incompetence of doctors and pain management ending with a plea that John come and wrangle more drugs for him. 

Then he deleted the text. 

Nothing hurt that badly. Sherlock was feeling abandoned, but he was keen not to appear too needy. It was pathetic! And it put John off him.

Instead, he started reading through Lestrade's cold cases. He spent a pleasant few hours solving cases without leaving his bed.

John arrived back at hospital a bit after the argument over how much of the hospital lunch Sherlock had eaten (the jello and the can of Tango, nothing else). He brought the papers and settled into the recliner next to Sherlock's bed to share them out. John smiled to himself as he read. In fact, he seemed positively buoyant.

He'd had sex with Shane. 

It was obvious – Sherlock always knew when John had got a leg over with one of his girlfriends, this was no different. That's where he'd been all morning, having a lie-in with his boyfriend. 

And why shouldn't he?! John didn't owe Sherlock anything – very much the opposite. And it was good that John had overcome feeling unattractive, nonsexual – the very feelings that Church had taken advantage of in Simon Fraser.

Sherlock tried to hide his bitter disappointment, not let on that his stomach had a pit of lead in it, and his heart was shredded.

John had chosen Shane. 

It was for the best, he told himself sternly. Shane was good for John, he had an emotional intelligence (he repressed the automatic sneer) that Sherlock completely lacked. And Shane was rich, he could buy John one of those expensive prosthetic hands he had researched, one that would give John a semblance of normalcy.

Sherlock had never deserved John anyway. 

John didn't seem to notice Sherlock's heartbreak. He was attentive and charming – chuffed to realize he was still a bad ass, still capable of putting down villains. 

"You'll be released tomorrow." John told him. "Do you want me to stay with you tonight?"

Sherlock did, of course. "No. You should sleep in your own bed. You need it." 

(And I don't know how to be with you now that I cannot have you.)

John had pushed a stray curl off Sherlock's forehead and kissed his brow. "The flat's too quiet without you." He said. 

Sherlock had thought about that late into the night. What did it mean? John had chosen Shane... did he expect that they would go back to being friends, living and working together as before?

Could Sherlock do that? Pretend that John had never touched him, never made love to him, never cum inside him? Pretend he'd never seriously proposed marriage? Pretend that Sherlock was not in love with him? Could John do that?!

Sherlock wept, the tears rolling unchecked across his face into his pillow. He should NEVER have let himself hope that John might be his.

But the tender caress and kiss on his forehead – what was that? It wasn't friendly, it was caring. Loving. 

Confusing.

Sherlock was released the next day. John had come to hospital for a check in with his surgeon, an appointment with his prosthetist and OT. Sherlock waited silently in the lobby until he finished. Then, wearing his new prosthetic, John brought Sherlock back to Baker Street.

John had opted for a prosthesis that looked nothing like a hand. He had studied the cosmetic hands and the 'realistic' pincer hands, he'd browsed through the high-tech articulated hands that Shane had researched, and he had chosen the simple body powered metal hook and pincer. 

Sherlock watched John as he tried to act naturally with it – to neither hide nor feature it. But no matter what he did, people stared at the prosthetic with expressions of mingled curiosity and horror. 

John's mood suffered. He didn't fall back into the deep depression, but his mouth was set with tension, his eyes angrily defiant. Sherlock said nothing – what could he say? It didn't help that the boot Sherlock wore for the cracked tibia meant going more slowly than either of them would have liked.

It didn't help that Sherlock felt like crying.

At home in their flat, John relaxed. 

He smiled as he helped Sherlock install himself on the sofa in front of the telly, his foot propped up on a pillow on the coffee table. John sat down next to him and picked up the remote. He turned the TV on and started flipping through the channels.

"You've been quiet today." John observed.

"Mm."

John set down the remote and turned towards Sherlock with the look of a man with something to say.

Here it comes. Sherlock thought. He's going to tell me he's chosen Shane.

John looked at Sherlock for a second then smiled to himself. He pulled his legs up under him and shifted to a kneeling position on the couch, facing Sherlock. 

He reached out and touched Sherlock's face, pushing curls back from Sherlock's eyes. Then John leaned close and brushed his lips across Sherlock's.

"Oh!" This was not what Sherlock had expected.

Then John's mouth pressed against his own and Sherlock thought that if he had any pride, any dignity, he would push John away. Tell him that he didn't want whatever this was – a goodbye snog? Pity sex?

But Sherlock realized he had no pride, not where John was concerned. He let John kiss him – no, he kissed John, pulling him close and losing track of where his tongue stopped and John's began. Fuck, he wanted this man! He'd wanted him from the moment he'd set eyes on the wounded soldier standing with quietly desperate dignity in his lab. Sherlock hadn't been able to admit this desire to himself, but he'd been unable to stop himself bringing John along to crime scenes, showing off for him...

John's phone rang. 

John paused. 

"You should get it." Sherlock said, meaning the exact opposite.

John pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at it. "Sorry, I SHOULD get this." He smiled apologetically. "Don't go anywhere." He slid away and stood up.

"Hey? Hi." John's voice was warm. It must be Shane. "Yeah, everything went smoothly, we're back at the flat...." He walked into the kitchen but Sherlock could hear every word. "No, not yet, I was just about to..."

Sherlock turned the volume up on the telly. 

"Hold on a sec..." John took the phone into his bedroom and shut the door.

Sherlock was glad. It hurt to hear John's voice soft and intimate with someone else. 

He thought about where he was going to live – staying in Baker Street was out of the question now. His garret in the artists' colony was on the sixth floor of a walk up – not great with a broken leg. He supposed he could take possession of Mycroft's spare bedroom, but he'd rather drive tacks into his gums – and after half a day with Mycroft, he would be. 

Sherlock thought about the flop house near the colony in Barking, the one he'd carefully avoided in the weeks John hadn't been speaking to him. It wasn't a house, per se, but any number of addicts and junkies shared the abandoned office block. He could go there, fall back into the embrace of heroin.

"Yes." Sherlock muttered, resting his head on the back of the sofa and closing his eyes. "Yes." He would leave here tonight. The decision made him feel calmer.

In the meantime, Sherlock decided he DID have a shred of pride. He didn't want John's pity.

He heaved himself up off the couch, turned off the telly, and hobbled over to his violin. He should leave it with Mycroft so he wouldn't be tempted to hawk it for drugs money.

He opened the case and picked up the instrument. He'd played a little when John was in hospital, mostly to discover if he needed to rehair the bow or change any strings. Now he tightened the bow and brought the violin to his shoulder and plucked the strings, tuning the instrument. This was part of what Sherlock loved about the violin – the rituals. When he was satisfied he stood up straight and brought his bow to bear.... then hesitated. 

Anything he played now would tell John exactly what he was feeling. Did he want John to know? Did he care?

He drew the bow across the strings, letting his hands move of their own accord, hearing the notes a millisecond before he played them, letting it flow. His violin had access to the deep wells of emotion inside him, emotion he suppressed, hid from himself as much as anyone. Sherlock had embraced some of this emotion, this sentiment, when it became apparent he could not sublimate it any longer – his feelings for John. Now he needed to drain off the surfeit caused by John's rejection until he could cover that well and nail it closed for good.

Sherlock hardly knew what he played, whether it was melodious or discordant, plaintive or spritely... he lost himself in it, wrapped himself in the notes...

He heard John's bedroom door open. 

Sherlock stopped playing abruptly. He realized he'd been crying again. Hastily, Sherlock wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve. 

"You don't have to stop." John said. "It's beautiful."

"I'm... I've finished for today." Sherlock busied himself loosening the bow and cleaning the parts of the instrument he'd touched. It allowed him to keep his back turned whilst he gained control of his features.

It would all be over soon. 

"What's wrong?" John asked. Sherlock glanced over – John had removed the prosthetic and was wearing the striped t-shirt with the long sleeves. It covered the stump. He was limping a little as he walked.

"Nothing – just the ...I haven't played in a while." Sherlock changed the subject. "Your leg is bothering you." 

"It's fine."

"Obviously it's not. Let me massage it for you."

"We need to talk first."

Sherlock snapped the case closed and then stood very still, hoping John would get it over with quickly.

He did not. "Come sit on the couch for a minute, yeah?" 

Sherlock walked to the couch feeling like he was walking to the guillotine. 

He sat down next to John and Sherlock's despair overwhelmed him. He bowed his head, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John reached out and pushed the dark curls back from Sherlock's face. Sherlock pulled away.

"I can't stay here, John." He said. "You're doing better now, you don't need me here." 

"What are you talking about?" John's voice had taken on a sharpness.

"I have to go... somewhere else."

"You're leaving me. Again." John sounded brittle. "Why come back at all, Sherlock? Was this some kind of game, getting me to trust you again?!"

Startled, Sherlock turned to look at John – the fury in his eyes was shocking. "No... John, it's not..." 

John wasn't listening. He stood up and quickly moved away from Sherlock.

"You chose him." Sherlock cried. "How can you expect me to live here when I can't... when you're with him."

He had John's attention – and his fury was displaced by confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Shane. You slept with him. Which is ... fine, whatever. But you can't expect me..."

"How do you know that... ugh. Of course you know." John sat carefully back down on the sofa, composing himself. "I was planning to talk to you about this..." He took a deep breath. "Erm...before you came back," John began formally. "Everything was going great with Shane... it was the happiest I'd been since you... you left. Then you were suddenly alive, and telling me you were in love with me, proposing to me... everything got bloody complicated... I've been going out of my mind trying to figure out what to do." John paused as if searching for words. "I don't know how to say this..."

"Just say it!" Sherlock said miserably. "It's over, it's difficult, you're sorry, whatever... get on with it so I can get off this bloody couch."

"That's not what I'm trying to say! Sherlock, LISTEN to me for a second! Will you?" John paused again and Sherlock huffed impatiently. "Hold on! Jesus, Sherlock, give me a second. What I'm trying to say is – I'm NOT GOING TO choose between you! I don't know how, and I have too much else going on..." John looked down at his stump. "So I'm not going to. I'm just...I'm not doing it. I told Shane and now I'm telling you – if you have a problem with it, then YOU have a choice to make." John cleared his throat and continued less stridently. "Erm, Shane says he doesn't have a problem with me being with you..." He let the statement dangle.

Sherlock felt a ridiculous, shameful hope blooming in his chest. "You ... you want to be with both of us?" 

"Well, not at the same time, but..."

"Yes." Sherlock said quickly. 

"Yes?"

"Yes, I agree. Yes!"

"You're ok with me being with Shane, then?"

"No, absolutely not. I hate everything about it."

"But..."

"But I get to be with you."

"Sherlock, you do understand..."

"I understand perfectly, John. I get to be with you. You and I... together." Sherlock felt a little giddy.

"And Shane."

"Yes, whatever."

"Maybe you should take some time to think it through..."

"What for?"

"You must have some feelings..."

"Oh! Boring."

"Sherlock!"

"What difference does it make!? You want to be with me!"

"It makes a difference, Sherlock. All right, all right, fine. Just promise me you won't sulk or throw tantrums when I go see Shane."

"Jealousy is boring."

"That's never stopped you before." John sighed. "Look, I'm going out for a run. When I get back we can talk if you want. Or we can decide what to have for dinner." John got off the couch and walked towards his bedroom.

"John, you're limping. Are you sure you should..."

"Yes! I'm sure." John snapped. "I'm a bloody doctor, remember."

Ten minutes later, John left the flat in trainers and sweats, the sleeve of his sweatshirt pulled down over his stump. Sherlock watched from the window as John stretched cursorily on the front stoop then trotted down the pavement. Sherlock picked up his violin.

John didn't return for almost two hours. When he did, his ungainly lope as he made his way down Baker Street was even more awkward than usual. 

Sherlock didn't comment as John went directly to the sink and drank from the tap. He got a glass down from the cupboard and handed it to John.

"Leg cramps?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah." John was too weary to be angry.

"Offer for massage still stands."

"Ugh, I'm all sweaty."

"I don't care." Sherlock said.

"Mm."

"Couch." Sherlock said and hobbled back towards the living room.

"Don't treat me like an invalid." John said, but he smiled as he said it.

"Shut up and take your sweatpants off." Sherlock replied. "Stop being an idiot."

John did as he was told, taking his trousers down and slipping them off. He sat on the sofa, wearing only a t-shirt, hoodie and a jockstrap.

"Oh..." Sherlock said when he saw the jock. He couldn't take his eyes off it. 

John smirked.

Sherlock lifted John's legs onto his lap. John obligingly lay back, pulling a cushion under his head. Sherlock began gently kneading his left leg. 

John still had bruises all over his legs, faded now to sickly yellows and greens with a few dark purple spots. His abrasions were mostly healed, only the worst still scabbed over. The purple-black of the subcutaneous bleeding from his wounded testicles still stretched down the insides of his thighs, but it was beginning to break up and fade at the edges.

Sherlock remembered viscerally that John had been tortured, that he had almost died.

He ran his hand gently over the black skin. "Does this hurt?" He asked.

"No. It just looks terrible."

"Mm." Sherlock was enjoying rubbing John's leg, stimulating the circulation in his damaged limb. His legs were furrier than Sherlock's own, his body hair redder than the silvering hair on his head. Sherlock tried to bring up a sense memory of the furry legs pressed against his skin, but he couldn't.

Sherlock worked his fingers up John's thigh, the tips brushing against the jock.

"You smell good." John said. "Did you...?"

"Yes." He'd bathed carefully. He didn't want to assume they would have sex, but thought it couldn't hurt to be prepared.

"I should have a wash." John said self-consciously.

"No." Sherlock replied. Rubbing John's calf he leant over and kissed John's big toe, sucked it into his mouth. He was discovering how much he liked John this way, damp and pungent from exercise. "Don't you dare."

John sat up, propping himself on his elbows, watching Sherlock work on his leg. The evening sun shone through the windows and set his ginger hair ablaze. His skin was ruddy, every pore illuminated. Sherlock could study John's face for hours, the strong lines of his nose and jaw, the delicate pink of his lips, the rough skin of his cheek, the thick fringe of his eyelashes... and his eyes, full of hope and wanting. John wanted him! Sherlock discovered his fingers were tracing the shape of John's brow, his cheekbone... John leaned into his touch with a sigh and Sherlock tightened his grip on John's neck and pulled him into a kiss.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and held him – John shifted his weight and he was sitting in Sherlock's lap, his hand exploring Sherlock's chest and shoulder, touching his neck and hair. They had only made love once and only kissed three or four times before... this time there was nothing tentative or desperate. Just passion, two men who loved each other, who wanted each other, sharing hot, heady, deep kisses. Sherlock could hear them, lips smacking, the wet sound of their tongues, John's harsh breathing, the small noises of pleasure Sherlock realized that he was making himself...

This! He could get lost in this. He slipped his hands under John's shirt and caressed his skin. He felt the ridges of John's abdomen. John had lost weight when Sherlock was away, and more since he'd been in hospital. He missed the softness that had been there. When had he touched it? They'd only kissed once before he'd left, but Sherlock had held him – had his hands strayed that far? They must have.

His hands certainly had not got where they were now, tracing the outline of John's cock, a great granite bar shoving its way out of the jock. Sherlock tugged it aside and palmed the throbbing member. (It too was discolored, but there was no sign of the welts Moran had inflicted. It had healed.) John moaned in pleasure, his head falling back and Sherlock found his mouth against John's neck. His skin was salty with dried sweat. Sherlock bit the tender flesh there, feeling John's pulse through his teeth. 

John grunted and with hand and forearm slammed Sherlock back against the couch and followed with a savage kiss. He lifted himself and threw a leg over to straddle Sherlock's lap. He bit Sherlock's upper lip, his tongue pressed against the tender peaks, following their line. His fingers plucked at Sherlock's nipple, circling with his thumb – he had remembered how sensitive they were, how it made Sherlock's back arch and his breath stutter.

John plunged his tongue deep into Sherlock's mouth, taking his breath away with the kiss. How had he lived without this?! Sherlock wrestled John's jockstrap down his hips freeing the steel rod it had tried to contain. His hands were on it, fisting it's length, exposing the tender glans, smearing the dampness on the head, swirling it around and around the velvety flesh. He wanted to taste it, swallow it down...

"Fuck my mouth." He told John. 

John's eyes snapped open in surprise, their glaze of pleasure sharpening into focus. Sherlock nodded in affirmation. He licked his lips and saw John's eyes flick there, mesmerized.

"It might be... rough." John said, his voice husky. 

"Good." Sherlock said. "That's... good."

John examined his face for another moment. Then he nodded once, his jaw tensing, and pulled his shirt and hoodie together off over his head – with only a slight awkwardness. Sherlock spared a hand to range over John's chest, carding through the patch of coarse red hair he found there. The bruises on his wrist and neck were still prominent, but his chest looked almost untouched now. It was fascinating to see the twitch of John's muscles under his skin without the soft pad of fat hiding them. They were bulky, manly, and they made Sherlock's mouth water with want.

Sherlock noted, in that part of his brain that noticed everything, how John tried to keep his stump – still bright pink with fresh scarring – out of Sherlock's primary range of vision, resting his elbow on the back of the sofa next to Sherlock's ear, or holding his left arm down and slightly behind his body. Sherlock wanted to take hold of John's left arm, caress it, bring it to his lips for kisses down its length... but he didn't dare. Once again Sherlock wished he had not run from this, wished he had embraced his feelings for John from the start, embraced the deepening relationship. If he had – and if John had lost a hand – he would have long familiarity with John's body, with the pleasure they could give each other. He could reassure John with kisses to his stump. Instead their relationship was a precarious thing that either one of them could ruin with a wrong move.

John unbuttoned the top button of Sherlock's trousers, one-handed. "Open that." He commanded. "I want to touch you."

Sherlock regretfully let go of John's cock to free his own. John took advantage of the moment to slide the jockstrap down and off one leg. He didn't bother with the other, wanting only greater freedom of movement. He took hold of Sherlock's prick, poking rudely from the open flies of his trousers and ran his thumb over the head, smearing the fluid he found there. Sherlock watched John put his thumb in his mouth and suck on it, tasting Sherlock. 

Sherlock whimpered with need and pulled John close again, their kisses hard and hungry. Sherlock's hands found John's jutting erection again. He jacked it slowly and fondled his balls with his other hand. John rocked his hips, shoving his cock into Sherlock's fist.

It was time. Sherlock let go and reached around John's hips, cupping his arse, squeezing and urging him upward. 

John pulled back and gazed into Sherlock's eyes once more – making certain that this was what Sherlock wanted. 

"If you want me to stop..."

"I don't."

"If you do, you'll need to be forceful."

Sherlock grinned, excited beyond measure at the thought that John wouldn't hold himself back.

John stepped up onto his feet, still straddling Sherlock's lap, then spread his legs wide, balancing on the wall, until his cock was level with Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock leaned forward and took the head between his lips. He tongued the slit, savouring the salty bitterness there. Then, again cupping John's arse, urged him forward.

He'd forgotten how big it was. His jaw was stretched wide and his throat assaulted. Sherlock struggled to relax as John pulled out and slowly pushed himself back in. Sherlock felt the impossibly huge cock push farther into his throat. He gagged. John immediately pulled back, but Sherlock gripped his arse and held him close. He took it into his mouth again, consciously relaxing his jaw – his eyes watered and saliva ran down his chin, but he continued to urge John's arse forward, back and then forward again, forcing his throat open until his nose and chin were buried in John's ginger bush. It felt like a wine bottle had been shoved down his gullet. Sherlock loved it.

John moaned appreciatively. He pulled back again and this time slid in more easily to the root. He began to fuck more steadily, pulling all the way out occasionally to let Sherlock take a gasping breath. Sherlock fisted his own prick as John began fucking his mouth in earnest, and his other hand crept into John's crack to finger the tight bud he found there. His own hole throbbed with want.

John was rough – his fist was in Sherlock's hair, holding his head still for the onslaught. John was pushing himself back onto Sherlock's fingers with every thrust, then spearing Sherlock's face again and again, swearing and moaning. "Take it!" He commanded Sherlock. "Take my hard cock, come on!" He shoved his hips forward, feeding his entire length into Sherlock's throat once again and holding him there.

When John pulled out, Sherlock filled his lungs with air, desperate for oxygen. John leaned down and kissed him, not minding – or not noticing – the drool coating Sherlock's chin. Sherlock kissed back hungrily, his fingers finding John's hair and pulling.

"Give me your arse." John growled.

Sherlock gasped. "Yes!" He breathed, kissing him greedily.

John pulled away, magnificent in his lean nakedness. "Get undressed." He said and with another quick kiss he stepped off the couch and strode out of the room.

\---

In his bedroom, John opened the drawer in his bedside table and grabbed the lube. He paused over the condoms – they made him think of Shane, something he didn't want to do right now. Abdicating the responsibility of picking one relationship over the other, it was cowardly – something John disliked. It was also a massive relief. 

He reached for something with his nonexistent left hand a hundred times a day. His brain still recoiled at the sight of the stump on the end of his left arm. John was reeling from the loss, his world topsy-turvy. He didn't have the wherewithal to make the choice. But the limbo they had been in in hospital had to end

When he'd told Bob, the psychiatrist, about the conversation with Shane, the one in which he told John he would be ok if John saw both of them, Bob had said, 'why not?'

"Why not keep both of them?"

"You don't know Sherlock. He'd NEVER agree to it."

"You don't think so?"

"I know so."

Bob had smiled at John's certainty. "For the sake of argument, say that Sherlock did agree to an arrangement where you saw both of them, how would that feel?"

"I... complicated. I can't imagine the logistics."

"How did you do it while you were in hospital? Alternate nights?"

"Yeah. Yes. But... "

"Neither of them complained."

"Because they saw how much their competition upset me, made me want to throw them both out. And in hospital... things are different than at home. I'm not an invalid, I'm healing quickly, soon enough they won't hold back anymore."

"That might be their problem, not yours."

"What am I supposed to do when Sherlock throws a tantrum?"

"Go see Shane. No need to reward bad behavior."

"He'd leave, he wouldn't stand for it."

"That would be his decision to make." Bob had regarded John. "I think Sherlock might surprise you. He's shown he's able to compromise when sufficiently motivated."

"I can't..." John had trailed off.

"John, don't confuse what YOU would or wouldn't accept for what Sherlock would or wouldn't. If you were in Sherlock's position, you think you would walk away. But that doesn't mean he will."

"The only reason he's accepted it thus far is because he feels guilty."

"He accepts it because he loves you."

"I already had an established relationship with Shane when he came back. A good relationship. He can't expect me to drop Shane just because he says he loves me."

"You think he expects you to drop Shane?"

John had thought for a moment. "No." He had admitted. "He wants me to – he hopes I will. But he's never asked it of me. Not even obliquely."

"What would you do if he asked?"

"I'd tell him to go to hell." Then John had sighed. "I don't know what I'd do."

Bob had leaned forward. "John, Shane is right, no one should expect you to make any big decisions right now. Let yourself off the hook. You didn't create this situation, maybe it's not something that you have to resolve."

"It won't resolve itself."

"Perhaps it will. If Sherlock walks away, that's a resolution. If he asks that you leave Shane for him, you can see how that feels and deal with it then. If he agrees and you see both of them, you could find yourself wanting to be with one more than the other. Or it could work well and that's your resolution. You won't know unless you try."

"It feels... irresponsible."

"You don't always have to be the responsible one."

John had thought about it for a few seconds. "I admit, not having that weight on my shoulders would be... a relief. I don't know how I'd tell Sherlock, though. It's not a conversation I ever imagined."

They had continued talking. The more used to the idea John got, the more he liked it. Why SHOULD it be John's responsibility?

He hadn't expected Sherlock's response to be 'yes.' John had expected Sherlock to give him an ultimatum – him or me. How Sherlock posed the ultimatum would have determined John's response. He couldn't imagine an ultimatum he would have reacted positively to, but Sherlock had surprised him before.

Sherlock's 'yes' was so unexpected, John needed time to regroup. He'd gone running to come to grips with it.

He still expected Sherlock to propose again, to want to insinuate himself into every corner of John's life, to consume him... having Shane would prevent that. No matter what Sherlock did, John would have Shane.

And he HAD Sherlock! John was unprepared for the fierce joy that gave him. Between his anger, Shane, and his fear of Sherlock's selfishness, he'd not let himself consider what it would be like to HAVE him, to really be together.

He wondered how long it would take one of them to ruin it.

Then there was the sex! 

The first time they were together, John had been so preoccupied by his anger, by thinking it was their only chance to be together and wanting to put EVERYTHING into that one coupling.... he could hardly say if it had been good. He thought it was, but that simply could have been the importance he attached to it in his mind.

But their sex WAS amazing – it was hard to believe Sherlock was a novice, he'd barely gagged at all. John had had girlfriends who took a look at his big piece and refused to give him oral, and he couldn't blame them. He wouldn't want to stretch his mouth around it. Even Shane, an experienced and enthusiastic cocksucker couldn't take it all. Sherlock had, seemingly by force of will. And when he had said he WANTED it rough, John could have cum right then. Sherlock seemed determined to give John sensations he'd never experienced before. 

God, John wanted him! It shocked him how much. 

John took the lubricant back into the front room. Sherlock, having shed his clothes, was refastening the boot around his broken leg. He stood up when he heard John approach, and John saw he wasn't nude – Sherlock had put on John's sweaty jockstrap, the outline of his erection clearly visible through the white cotton.

It took John's breath away. He'd forgotten how beautiful Sherlock was naked: long and elegant, his alabaster skin untouched by blemishes. Dark hair lightly furred his legs and just a hint of it graced the trail down his abdomen that led into the jock – that nasty, sweaty, used jockstrap. John's erection throbbed.

It took a moment for John to decipher the look on Sherlock's face. John's blood surged again when he realized it was coyness.

"Wow." John breathed.

Sherlock blushed prettily.

John took Sherlock's hand in his own and kissed it. "You are gorgeous." He said and stood on tiptoe to press a kiss to his mouth.

Sherlock's arms closed around him and their kiss deepened. John ground his cock against Sherlock's through the used jockstrap.

"Turn around and bend over the couch." John commanded. Sherlock grinned and complied. John kissed the base of his spine, nipped his buttock, then as Sherlock spread his legs, John kissed the tightly puckered hole. Sherlock moaned. John used his tongue and Sherlock spread his legs wider, giving John greater access.

Squeezing the lube between his arm and body, John took a dollop on his fingers and rubbed it into Sherlock's pucker. Sherlock pressed himself back onto John's hand, taking the tip of his finger. John gently penetrated him, letting him relax into the intrusion. Unlike with Shane, Sherlock was all but a virgin, it took time – Sherlock had done it for himself the first time they were together and John had lost track of the time watching him finger himself. Now he was careful to keep himself in check.

Eventually John had worked three fingers in. "John, give me more...I want your whole hand inside me." Sherlock moaned. John slipped a fourth finger in slowly and making a cone of his fingers, added his thumb. He fucked Sherlock's arse with his hand, feeling him open up.

John squeezed more lubricant (painstakingly, the tube pressed between upper arm and ribs) and pushed it into Sherlock, then more onto his cock. He pressed the fat head against Sherlock hole and breached – his foreskin was rucked back off the head of his cock and pinned by the tight ring of muscle.It felt amazing. He heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath and with great effort stilled himself, kneading Sherlock's back, until he relaxed again. John eased more of himself in, then again stopped and waited for Sherlock to acclimate. It was difficult, he wanted to rut, to claim Sherlock's arse for his own. But he waited. 

Finally, finally he was all the way in. He caressed Sherlock's back, murmuring encouragements, then pulled back until only the head remained, and smoothly pushed back in. 

"Ohhh!" Sherlock sighed. John smiled – pleasure was replacing the pain. He began to fuck slowly, steadily, Sherlock grunting with each thrust. "More, John..."

John's hand found the curve of Sherlock's shoulder and he held on whilst fucking harder, faster, starting to drive himself into Sherlock, bollocks slapping against his thighs. Sherlock started swearing and begging for more. John reached around and rubbed the front of the jock with his left forearm, Sherlock's prick had soaked it with precum. 

John felt self-conscious doing this. He wasn't ready to use the stump itself for lovemaking – or anything, really. But his sturdy forearm was familiar, the sensitive skin on the inside now damp with Sherlock's emissions. It still felt like himself, like John the soldier, the doctor, the whole man.

This grim reverie was interrupted by Sherlock. "Fuck me! Uhh, John! Fuck me harder! I need your cock! I need you inside me! Fuck! John! John!" He was louder, more insistent this time – John, in the small part of his brain that cared, worried he'd bring Mrs. Hudson up the stairs.

John was slamming his body against Sherlock's now, their skin smacking together. He held the back of the jockstrap in his fist, pulling it tight, holding it like the reins of a horse, riding Sherlock hard. Sherlock was gripping the back of the sofa, bracing himself, pushing himself back to meet John's hips with each thrust. Then Sherlock's arse contracted, tightening around John's cock and he shuddered with his whole body. He was cumming, spurting into the sweaty jockstrap.

John's orgasm took him by surprise – before Sherlock had finished he too was cumming, shoving himself as deeply as he could and shooting... he filled Sherlock's arse and kept shooting and shooting, cum dripping out as he fucked.

They collapsed onto the couch together, John rolling them onto their sides, holding Sherlock tightly against his chest. Sherlock continued to shudder

"Are you ok?" John asked. 

"Of course." Sherlock said with a last shuddering sigh.

John relaxed, letting his breathing slow and eyes close. A kip after sex was always welcome. Moreso with his lover in his arms. He was on the edge of sleep when Sherlock spoke again.

"Will it always take so long?" His voice sounded uncharacteristically vulnerable. 

John roused himself. "To get going? No. The more we do it, the easier it should get."

"It's not just me then?"

John chuckled. "No, my love. It's much more my fault – big isn't always better."

Sherlock snuggled closer. "You DO love me."

"Yes, of course."

"When did you know?"

"That I loved you? I don't know – it snuck up on me. I denied it for a long time, it's not something I ever expected..." John was reflective. "I guess when we were drugged chasing the hellhound of Baskerville, you were so upset and I tried to talk you down ... "

"I told you I didn't have friends."

"Yeah. Yes. Maybe it was the drugs, but alone that night... I was ...devastated. More than I should have been. I knew then... I knew I was in love with you and it was hopeless. I repressed it... I wasn't ready..."

"That wasn't long before that night..."

"When I woke up in your arms." John said, squeezing Sherlock more tightly. "Seven months. I counted after you... when you were away."

"I've come to regret that night. That I pushed you away. Where would we be now if I hadn't?"

"That way lies madness." John said. "Honestly, I was as relieved as I was disappointed. It wasn't until after you died that... that I came to understand how much I'd lost – we'd lost..."

"I'm so sorry, John."

"You're here now."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "We'll have to do this a lot ...until it's easy."

"What? Fuck?"

"Mmmm."

"We can do that."

"Next time, pull my hair."

John laughed out loud, shifting his hips with futile arousal. "You like to be ridden rough." He murmured and let himself drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter soon!


	12. The Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock begins to understand what sharing John means.

Sherlock was studiously ignoring the fact that John was dressing to go out to dinner with Shane. Dinner and then most likely he'd stay the night. With Shane.

This was the deal he'd made. He would live with it.

It had been easy not to think about it yesterday – the sex alone kept his mind engaged for several hours. (How had he ever thought it would be boring?!) And then just being WITH John, being together as a couple, making dinner (or rather watching John make dinner) and eating it together, unable to stop grinning at each other like fools. It had been wonderful.

This morning he'd woken next to John – his entire body deliciously sore from the intense and unaccustomed exertions of the day before – with the knowledge that it wasn't the last (only) time. He'd watched John sleep, studied how the careworn lines on his face relaxed. He didn't look younger really, he looked like a man without worries, a man who had set down his burdens. But it was still a strong face filled with character.

When John woke, they had stayed in bed together and talked about nothing in particular. John was still covered in bruises and scabs, his amputation scar a livid magenta – but for an hour, John didn't seem to think of those things at all. They whispered and giggled and held each other like teenagers.

That was worth whatever time John spent with Shane.

They had fucked again yesterday – in the bog when they were washing up. Sherlock had just taken off the boot, he'd forgotten momentarily about the fracture – he hadn't felt it aching whilst he had wrangled with John. He set it aside and straightened up... and a mark on John's neck caught his eye. A smallish, purple mark just above his clavicle – a love bite. Shane had marked John.

The explosion of feelings was overwhelming – jealousy, rage, hatred, self-hatred, an alarming constriction of his scalp... 

Without reflection, Sherlock had bitten John, sunken his teeth into the back of John's neck, embedding his particular bite pattern deep into John's flesh.

"Ow! Fuck! What are you doing?!" John shouted, trying to jerk away. "Stop!" He shoved Sherlock into the vanity hard, upsetting the toothbrushes and the shaving cream.

Sherlock was panting hard, red faced with embarrassment but still burning with jealousy. He'd lashed out again, reaching out... not sure what violence he intended ... but John was so fast! He sidestepped the move and Sherlock felt John's hand on his side, his shoulder, then he was bent over the sink, face-first against the mirror.

And he was aroused! He felt John's cum dripping down the back of his thighs, John's hand gripping his neck... he was dizzy with renewed lust. 

Sherlock arched his back, pressing his bare arse against John's groin. He felt John's cock firming in answer...

John had turned Sherlock around and their lips found each other's before Sherlock even knew what was happening. John lifted Sherlock's thigh – Sherlock sat on the edge of the sink – and then the other and hooked Sherlock's legs over his shoulders. His cock was full hard by then, red and angry looking. John had shoved it against Sherlock's hole savagely – the bite had his blood running hot.

It had been almost easy to take John's cock then – as loose and lubed as he was from the earlier coupling – John gave it to him all at once with an animalistic grunt.

Sherlock gripped the edge of the sink with one hand, John with the other, as John fucked him. The discomfort he had struggled with earlier lasted barely half a minute, the pleasure was intense – John's cock was perfect! Deep inside him, touching him where no one had ever touched him before. Places he hadn't known longed to be touched. NEEDED to be touched.

Sherlock's nipples were hard and his toes curled. John's big prick dragged against his insides, stimulating his most sensitive spot. He LOVED it! He wanted it to go on forever.

John nipped his nipples in between kisses. Sherlock was SO hard, his cock dripping freely. As John impaled him over and over with increasing ferocity, Sherlock had moved to take himself in hand – and realized that with every thrust up inside him, his belly would pop out, John's cock making a visible mound in his lean form. Sherlock watched his abdomen round and hollow, round and hollow, with fascination. 

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and placed it on his swelling stomach – he savoured John's incredulity. "Harder!" He groaned. "I need it, John! Fuck me! Fill me with your seed! Breed me!" The words surprised him, Sherlock wasn't certain where he'd learned them. But it didn't matter as long as John continued to shove his cock up inside him.

John jackhammered Sherlock's hole, sweating with effort. Gravity conspired to make their rutting even more intense, Sherlock slipping down the sink, John shoving him back up with his hips. "You're a slut!" John accused.

"Yes!" Sherlock agreed. "Fuck your cum into me! Harder!! Oh!"

"Greedy slut!"

"Yes! Give it to me!"

"Cock whore! You loved having my cock down your throat!"

"Yes! I loved it! I wanted you to shoot in my mouth, watch me swallow it all down... Oh! Like that! Yes! Just like that!" John had shifted his hips to pin Sherlock's pelvis more securely against the basin and the new position drove Sherlock out of his mind. He humped John best he could from his constrained posture, his thighs flexing against John's shoulders, and begged John for more. "Don't stop, John! Please, fuck me harder! Fuck me! Fuck! John Fuck me!" His words devolved into a grunting wail of desperation.

Sherlock felt John stiffen, felt his cock grow even bigger and hotter as it sawed at Sherlock's arse erupting semen. He trembled as he continued his thrusting assault. "I'm ruining your arse!" John whispered triumphantly. "Destroying your hole! You'll leak cum for a week."

Sherlock's prick spontaneously erupted without either of them touching it. John grinned as Sherlock spasmed and shot and kept hammering his arsehole as hard as he could.

Sherlock collapsed, arms around John's neck as his softening cock slipped out of the stretched hole. 

"My love." John murmured, holding Sherlock's sweaty, sticky body against his own and slowly letting down his legs. 

Sherlock surprised him by slipping down onto his knees and grabbing hold of John's prick. He had the half-hard cock down his throat before John even knew what he was doing. (Sherlock had prepared himself meticulously, he knew he was safe from bacteria.)

Sherlock licked and sucked the lube and cum off John's prick. "Oh! Too much!" John cried, pulling his cock free. He collapsed onto the bath mat next to Sherlock and grinned at him goofily. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and kissed him, not shying away from the taste of himself on Sherlock's lips.

"You're amazing." John mumbled.

"Really?"

"Fantastic. Really... quite extraordinary." John kissed Sherlock again. 

Sherlock had always been afraid of this thing inside himself, his sexual desires had always seemed so extreme, so reckless. It was ...logical... to shove it down deep, sublimate it ruthlessly, not let it control him. But here it was. He'd allowed himself a sexual relationship and his dangerous desire to give over all control and be used by another man had come along.

The knowledge that he was safe with John made him teary, and he hid his face in John's shoulder.

"Sherlock, love, what's wrong?"

"Nothing... this was just... perfect. I never thought I'd have this..."

John held him close while he sobbed, feeling foolish but unable to stop. John pet his hair and whispered about how beautiful he was and how loved he was.

"It was... it was ok?" He asked at long last.

"Jesus, yes! It was amazing. But, Sherlock, I don't want you to do something just because you think I'll like it..."

Sherlock laughed a little. "I was being very selfish, John. I didn't even think about what you might want. I just... wanted..."

John smiled and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Then I think we're compatible." He chuckled. "But... we need a safe word... just in case ..."

Sherlock had agreed. He was feeling extremely agreeable just then.

He was feeling less agreeable now as John kissed the side of his head.

"There's leftover curry in the fridge, if you want it." John immediately looked embarrassed that he'd said it. He was wearing a blue plaid shirt that Sherlock didn't recognize, under a caramel cardigan buttoned up – he was going out to dinner, Sherlock deduced, and meeting more than just Shane. Was that a good idea? He examined John more closely, the way he dawdled in the kitchen, the hesitation in his step... no, not a good idea at all.

Sherlock didn't say anything. Even sitting still his thighs ached from stretching over John's shoulders yesterday, the pain taunting him. His fractured tibia hurt worse – the pain medication he'd been given was woefully inadequate.

He had pulled out the single cold case of Lestrade's that he hadn't been able to solve from his hospital bed. Sherlock needed to reconnoiter the crime scene to prove one way or the other if the sister had done it. That is what he would do tonight, dinner wasn't on his radar.

"You should take it easy – rest that broken leg." John said. "Give it a chance to heal."

Sherlock shuffled the files, pretending to read a page he'd already memorized.

Ok. Goodnight." John headed for the door.

"Enjoy your dinner party." Sherlock said – neutrally, he thought. But John gave him an irritated glance as he left the flat.

 

\---

 

The hours John had spent at Scotland Yard, giving his statement about Angus Church had been stressful. He could pinpoint the moment that one of the coppers had noticed his amputation – suddenly everyone was staring at him with that look on their face. That look of pity and horror and open curiosity. John hated that look.

He had spent hours with Bob trying to work out how to talk about it – or rather, what he could say that would STOP people from giving him that look.

Greg Lestrade had been ok. He hadn't asked, hadn't looked at him with pity. He was still reeling from finding Sherlock alive and (relatively) well. 

"Did you know all along?" Lestrade had asked. "Did you know Sherlock wasn't dead?"

"No." John said. "I didn't."

"Oh." With one syllable, Greg conveyed his dismay, confusion and understanding of what John must be feeling.

"Yeah. It's been difficult to forgive. But I've got bigger problems now."

Greg Lestrade nodded sympathetically. "It's got to be difficult, now that you have someone else."

"We were never a couple, you know that, Greg." John said testily. He had meant losing his hand, but Lestrade had misunderstood – perhaps purposely. 

"Yeah. You've said."

John looked away. "I have too much on right now to worry about that." He said. "Any of that."

"Did Sherlock have anything to do with what happened to you?" This was the first time Lestrade had referred to John's injury.

"He pulled me out. If he hadn't, I'd be dead."

"Maybe you'll tell me the story someday."

"No." John said. "I won't."

Greg Lestrade nodded sympathetically. "Ok." He said. Then, with an effort to change the subject: "Leave it to Sherlock to find a killer in hospital."

Shane had been fantastic all that day. He had pointed out what John had missed in the coppers' expressions: wonder; approbation; RESPECT. John, unarmed, had taken down a villain one handed that most of them wouldn't have the first idea how to take down with two.

Afterwards they walked to lunch. It was a sunny day and it felt good to be out of doors and especially out of hospital. John had thoroughly enjoyed eating – something that hadn't happened since Sherlock's return.

They'd walked to Baker Street, to John's flat and had a kip. John hadn't expected to be able to fall asleep, but Shane had claimed to be exhausted too so they'd cuddled up together on John's bed. He'd fallen asleep almost immediately. He had woken several hours later to the smell of coffee. 

John had made it to hospital in time for his appointment with Doctor Bob.

"You look different today, John. Being out of hospital agrees with you."

"Ta, it does."

"I heard you had a bit of adventure – single handedly captured a murderer, rescued your friends."

John smiled, embarrassed but also proud. "Yeah. Yes."

"That's extraordinary, John."

"Erm..." John didn't know how to reply.

"How do you feel about it?"

"Oh, erm, I was a soldier, I saw my share of trouble... working with Sherlock, I made use of that experience... that training..."

"Yes. And you've expressed your fear to me that you wouldn't be able to do that any longer."

"Yes....ahem... I did."

"How do you feel now?"

John shook his head. "I don't know. Afraid, still. Afraid of being a burden. Afraid of not pulling my weight."

"But you can. You've just demonstrated that."

John felt the smile rise involuntarily to his lips. "Yeah." He said softly.

"There's no reason you can't do it again."

"No..." John paused. "But I need to practice... If the fight had been longer... he easily could have taken advantage of my handicap."

"You will, John. I see your determination." Bob smiled again. "You CAN have a normal life."

"Yes..." John said, his voice filled with surprise.

After therapy, John had taken dinner to Sherlock. He felt a bit guilty leaving him alone all day, but he also felt... chuffed. That was it. It was ridiculous, maybe, to be THIS excited about something he'd done dozens of times before – but he'd thought his fighting days were behind him forever. The loss of his hand was profound, it would take a very long time for him to reconcile himself to it. But he had started.

He'd gone to Shane's that night, unable to contain his ebullience. 

"I'm glad you decided to come." Shane told him, kissing John hello.

"It's been far too long since I spent a night with my boyfriend." John said, collapsing on Shane's comfortable couch. 

"You ate?" Shane asked from the kitchen.

"Yeah – Thai takeaway with Sherlock."

"How is he?"

"Broke his tibia at some point. They put him in one of those boots that let you walk on it and he's walking on it too much, of course." Shane brought two bottles of beer to the couch and sat down next to John. "He's a little quieter than usual, maybe."

"He had a tough 24 hours."

"Mm." John took a slug of his beer. "I'm relieved that there doesn't seem to be any lasting damage from the GBH and concussion. He'll make a full recovery."

"That's great."

"Mm." John took another swallow of beer. It was his favorite kind. "Isn't this what we did on our first date? Sit on your couch drinking beer?"

"That's not all we did."

"Really? Maybe you should remind me?"

Shane grinned. "As I recall there was a bit of snogging." He leaned in and kissed John. His mouth was firm and cool from the beer, his tongue demanding.

For the first time since his abduction, John felt his cock take notice – not become erect, not yet, but to raise its hand and say 'present!' It felt like it had been years since that happened. He leaned into the kiss, enjoying the sensations of being aroused. Enjoying Shane.

Enjoying wasn't the word – treasuring, desperately fostering, insanely grateful to FEEL again, all his nerve endings on fire with pleasure.

Things got hot quickly and John pressed Shane to the back of the couch, enjoying the feel of his stringy muscle shifting beneath him. He liked Shane's mouth against his skin, his teeth digging into his flesh, hurting him a little, pushing the border between pleasure and pain.

"Fuck – let me take this thing off." John said, moving to stand.

Shane's arms locked around him. "Stay here – take it off here."

Their eyes met, John's hooded, Shane's bright and open. It took a long moment before John reluctantly nodded. Shane smiled just slightly and started unbuttoning John's shirt. He allowed it but his muscles buzzed with tension. Shane's touch was light, gentle, but John still started when he moved to push the shirt from his shoulders. John forced himself to relax enough for Shane to remove his shirt. 

Shane kissed his neck, his hands ranging over John's back and John felt some of the urgency return to his arousal. "Let me." John said, his hand on the hem of his vest. Shane leaned back and John pulled the shirt over his head and off. Now he was nude from the waist up but for the prosthetic.

John hurriedly loosened the buckle and slipped his right arm out of the harness. He pulled the prosthesis loose from his left arm and set it carefully on the end table. Then he rolled the cushioning sock off his stump, conscious of Shane's eyes on the truncated arm. He had a sudden sense memory of running the fingers of his left hand through Shane's chestnut hair, grabbing a fistful as he plunged his cock into Shane's mouth – it brought tears of grief and rage to his eyes.

Shane's fingers found their way into the carpet of ginger fur on John's chest, caressing. His mouth followed, his teeth and tongue moving over a nipple, worrying a love bite into his neck, whispering into his ear. "You came out of nowhere." Shane whispered. "And took the bugger down. So easily! Just like when we met – you took out the villain like it were nothin'! And just like then, I wanted you! You could have had me right there on the floor..."

Slowly John felt the tension ease from his body, cell by cell, leaving him aching and weak. Shane massaged his shoulders and neck, his fingers walking up over his scalp and jaw, working energy back into his muscles. John let Shane push him onto his back and luxuriated in the attention.

Shane massaged John's legs, kneading the large muscles of his thighs through his jeans. John smiled at him lazily, stretching his arms over his head. Shane kissed his ribs, one by one, his breath hot against John's skin. By the time he reached the bottom and started down John's abdomen towards his navel, John's prick had rejoined the action. Shane smiled with satisfaction and began unbuttoning John's flies.

"I've missed the big guy." Shane said and took the head in his mouth, sliding his hand down the shaft to the bollocks. John knew he still looked like hell – dark purple from groin to knee. But Shane didn't hesitate, he quickly had John moaning and gripping the couch cushion. 

"I want you." Shane murmured, sliding his tongue over the glans. "Will you fuck me, John?"

"Ohhh... you better stop that now if you want anything else." He sat up and pulled Shane's face to his, tasting the musky saltiness of himself as they kissed.

"In bed." Shane said. "I want you in my bed." He slid off the couch and pulled John to his feet, into his arms. John smiled and leaned up to kiss Shane again, his jeans sliding down his thighs. 

"How come you still have all your clothes on?" John asked, his hand under Shane's shirt.

"Come into my bedroom and watch me take them off." 

John pushed his trousers all the way down, stepped out of them and followed Shane.

Shane guided John to the bed. "Lay down." He whispered, nuzzling John's ear. It made his skin prickle delightfully. He stretched out on Shane's bed, head on the pillows, and relaxed.

Shane made a show of unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off. He wore nothing under it, his broad, bony chest, adorned with an abundance of curling chestnut fuzz, his large, brown nipples erect. He slowly unzipped his khaki trousers revealing the tented briefs beneath. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and pushed them down together, his firm prick springing free. He bent over to take them off.

He approached the bed and John sat up with interest. He watched as Shane opened a drawer and picked up a condom and a bottle of lubricant – he tossed both on the bed next to John. Shane pushed John back and climbed on top of him, pressing John's arms over his head and kissing him. "Oh god, I've missed this." Shane murmured. Their sex life had been robust before John's abduction, not even Sherlock's return had diminished the frequency or ardor.

"Me too." John said into Shane's hair. Shane kissed his neck and chest, then reached over for the lubricant. "Let me." John said, holding out his hand.

Shane smiled, his eyes crinkling. He squeezed a dollop of lube onto John's fingers. John sat up and wrapped his left arm around Shane's waist. Shane was on his knees straddling John, his legs spread. John reached through his legs and found the knot of muscle behind the perineum and began to massage the lube into it, kissing his lover's neck and jaw. Shane pushed back onto John's hand shifting his hips to take a finger inside. He sighed happily and rocked his hips, fucking himself on the finger. John introduced a second and Shane hummed with pleasure. It didn't take long for Shane to open up for all four of John's thick fingers – he was accustomed to the challenge of John's cock.

"That's good." Shane said and pressed John back down onto the pillows. He picked up the condom and ripped the package open with his teeth. Sitting on John's thighs, he took hold of John's prick and kissed the weeping head, fellating it several times – eliciting a moan from John. Then Shane placed the condom where his kiss had fallen and rolled it expertly down the shaft.

He doused the gloved erection in lube then lifted himself up and over it, placing it against his hole. With a look of concentration on his face, he sat back on John's cock, slowly but steadily sliding down its length until he sat on John's lap, the massive member entirely subsumed into his body. 

John was breathing shallowly, his eyes glazed over with the pleasure of Shane's hot tightness pressing in on him, that increased as Shane lifted up and began to ride John's cock, fucking himself on it aggressively. This wasn't a position they used often – Shane usually wanted John on top of him, said he liked the weight, liked the way it felt to have John fuck him that way. Their coupling was athletic and energetic.

But tonight was different. Tonight Shane was taking control. And John was more than content to lay back and watch Shane's thighs flex and his prick bounce as they made love. It was slower and sweeter than usual and it was exactly what John needed. When he came, jacking Shane's cock to bring him off simultaneously, he felt some tears fall – he loved Shane so much! He was so lucky to have such a caring man.

John had to laugh at himself – when was the last time sex had brought him to tears?! 

Then, as he wrapped Shane in his arms, John caught sight of the magenta-scarred stump and his happy tears changed to tears of frustration and pain. For twenty minutes he'd completely forgotten about his disfigurement – he'd felt normal. He had flexed his fingers, all ten of them, whilst they'd wrangled. Forgetting wasn't a gift – it was twice as painful to remember.

As they lay in bed holding each other, John made an effort to shake off the foul mood. Shane didn't deserve any more of John's moaning – especially not after taking care of John so thoroughly.

"The way you took out Angus... it was beautiful. I've never seen anything like it – not outside the cinema anyway. My boyfriend, the action hero." Perhaps Shane had sensed John's downturn, perhaps it was simply on his mind.

John laughed self-deprecatingly. "I got lucky."

"No. You're a bloody bad ass."

John didn't argue. Shane's words made him feel like a bad ass. He kissed Shane's shoulder. It was so different from anyone else he'd been with before him – so different from women, soft and small and delicate...

"I never thought I'd be with a man." John murmured. "I'm not sure how you changed my mind, but I had no idea what I was missing."

"I didn't change your mind." Shane said lazily. "Sherlock did that. By the time I came along you were ripe for the plucking."

John laughed softly. "I was ripe and now I'm rotting. Sorry – sorry, I feel good right now – it feels wonderful to be here with you... on your really nice linens, why do yours always feel so good?"

"Thread count."

"Mmm.

\---

The dinner was with Shane's cousin, Jason – the former RAF pilot – and his partner, Jane, and Mike Stamford and his wife, Siobhan. It was another foray into public with the prosthetic. John was not looking forward to it.

Mike was a good friend, but Mike was a doctor – he wasn't a surgeon like John, but he'd done his surgery rotation. He would understand HOW MUCH John had lost with his hand. More than anything, John didn't want to see the pity in Mike's kind eyes.

He was running late, but still he shilly-shallied on the way from the Underground. Why had he agreed to this? This dinner at a nice restaurant? He'd felt... content... lying in Shane's bed after having sex for the first time since his abduction, and he'd agreed to this dinner date. It had felt natural to go out as a couple with other couples.

But now he questioned himself. Mike would have been happy to meet for a pint, why hadn't John thought this through before agreeing? And why was Mike's wife (who John barely knew) coming? 

And Jason, a man he'd met four times. He had always LIKED Jason – pilots, like surgeons, had that unshakable calm in the face of (external) disaster. And he was dashing and handsome and very masculine – with a touch of the vitality that made his cousin, Shane, so attractive to John. Jason had made no secret that he was impressed with John, more impressed than John felt he merited.

John had met Jane only once. He would not have chosen that their second meeting be tonight.

In sight of the restaurant, he saw Shane waiting for him, checking his watch.

"I'm sorry I'm late." John said by way of greeting. He kissed Shane, registering how different his lips felt from Sherlock's. "Have you been waiting long?"

"No." He looked hard at John. "We don't have to do this, John. I can make our apologies and we can leave."

It was tempting. SO tempting. John sighed. "No, it's fine." He said. 

It wasn't fine. The moment he walked into the restaurant, John knew it was very much not fine. No one was looking at his prosthetic, the hooked pincers emerging from the sleeve of his donkey coat weren't attracting attention. But they would. People expected to see a hand there, their minds filled in the blank automatically. It increased their horror when they DID realize John's hand was NOT there. John was waiting for someone to notice. The suspense was unbearable.

He didn't want to take his coat off – that would surely call attention to his prosthesis. John forced himself as Shane slipped out of his shabby trench. He kept his left arm down as their coats were taken and they were led through the restaurant.

Then Mike was clapping him on the shoulder – awkwardly as halfway through he suddenly wasn't sure that he should be touching John that way. Siobhan stepped in, unperturbed, and kissed John's cheeks in greeting. She was a statistician, John remembered, trying to reconcile that with the motherly woman before him. He could see it in her eyes, a practicality, a keen intellect. She took his arm unselfconsciously and guided John to the table whilst Shane told Mike – through his expression – not to fret. 

Jason shook John's hand heartily. "You remember Jane." He said, touching the woman at his side.

"Of course." John said shaking her small hand. "Good to see you again."

"We were so sorry to hear about your accident." She said, her eyes flicking downward, searching for evidence.

John felt his face blank – it was all he could do not to snarl at her like a cornered animal. It wasn't an accident! It had been done to him purposely! He didn't contradict her – he didn't say anything to her. John just stood there, paralyzed. 

"We should sit." Shane said, coming up behind him. John registered that Jane's pretty face was stricken. He should smile, reassure her, say something polite ... but John couldn't. His throat was dust. He managed a nod.

He was sat between Mike and Jason, Shane across from him. "How are you, John?" Mike asked. 

"Fine." John couldn't bear to look at him, couldn't bear his concern. 

The waiter came by and John ordered a double scotch. He avoided looking at Shane's worried expression. 

This was ridiculous. John wasn't a child, he knew how to behave in public. He had to pull himself together. He asked Mike about his work at the teaching hospital. He could hear the relief in Mike's voice as he answered. 

Shane was engaged by Jane, Jason and Mike's were chatting awkwardly across John. Siobhan eyed John appraisingly, as if he were a particularly obtuse set of statistics or a bug in her garden. He found it relaxing. He asked her about her work and let her soothingly clinical tone distract him.

John endured. He ate little and drank more than he ought. He forced himself to engage. He kept his left arm down, the prosthesis in his lap. He felt its metal curve against his thigh.

Before pudding, John excused himself and made his way to the bog. He locked himself into a stall. He took care of his business – it was easier to unfasten his trousers one-handed than to fasten them and he struggled with it for a full minute. 

It wasn't until someone knocked on the stall door that John realized he was slumped against it, unmoving.

"Just a sec." He said, rousing himself.

"It's just me." Shane said softly. "They've gone."

The relief was overwhelming. John shuddered and sobbed, choking on it. "I'm sorry." He managed. "I didn't mean to drive them away."

"You didn't, John. Don't worry about them – that's not what they want."

John unlocked the door and opened it, awkwardly and Shane folded him in his arms. John allowed it. He'd felt pretty good for a few days, coasting on the high of his violent take down of a killer. He'd eaten food with gusto, laughed, been aroused, made love with his boyfriend, had energetic, nasty sex with the impossible man he'd been in love with for years, he'd lain in bed with his lover giggling like teenagers just that morning – and it had all felt wonderful. 

But it couldn't last. He'd been a fool to think it could.


	13. An Impossible Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John worries his friends and lovers.

John felt the mattress bow as someone sat on the bed next to him. 'Someone' – of course it was Sherlock. Shane hadn't been in John's bedroom since he started sleeping with Sherlock. John went to Shane's flat now.

"I know you aren't asleep." Sherlock said softly. 

'So what?' John thought. 'Leave me alone.' He didn't move. He stayed curled in on himself. Fetal. Self-protective.

"John..." Sherlock pet his hair gently. "You've been in bed for three days." He said. "I'm... I'm worried about you." The admission seemed to surprise him.

Had it been three days? He'd gotten up to slash and drink water from the tap only a moment ago, it seemed. Maybe that didn't count.

"You haven't eaten. You haven't answered your phone. You've barely moved." He continued to caress John's head. "I don't know what to do, John. YOU always handle these sorts of things."

Of course John handled 'these sorts of things.' John handled everything. Until he lost his hand. Then things got out of hand. He couldn't handle it.

"Go away." John said.

Sherlock didn't leave. He lay down next to John instead. John sighed. 

"Shane called me." Sherlock said. "You missed your lunch date yesterday and he hasn't been able to reach you. He says he came over here yesterday, but no one answered the door. He's been beside himself."

John wondered what day it was. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. Distantly he thought he SHOULD care that he'd stood Shane up... but it was so hard. He couldn't work up the enthusiasm to roll over... let alone care about lunch.

"I told him you were here... that you were sleeping." Sherlock's long fingers trailed down John's arm. "But you should text him... or something."

Or something... 

John knew he was depressed. He knew that's why he couldn't get out of bed. He'd continued taking the antidepressants Doctor Bob had prescribed, forcing himself to sit up and swallow them whenever his alarm went off ... daily... his alarm went off daily. There was usually a glass of water by the bed... someone must put it there...

He took the pills but he hadn't gone to see Bob in a while. What was the point?

What... was... the... point...

Shane. John didn't like to hear Sherlock speak about Shane. Shane and Sherlock. Sherlock and Shane. 

Sherlock OR Shane.

John had to make a decision. An impossible decision. Sherlock or Shane. Or he could just sleep a while longer. Maybe the decision would be made for him.

"What can I do, John?" Sherlock asked mournfully. "How can I .... help? Tell me what to do."

"Just go away." John said.

Sherlock didn't go away. He lay next to John softly petting him until John drifted off...

He dreamed he was in the earth, a seed or a bulb, slumbering through the winter... the dirt pressing in on him from every side... he didn't breathe, he didn't talk, he didn't eat or drink. He didn't move. He was buried alive... waiting... waiting...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Survivor. This story continues in 'The Choice' – John and Sherlock have another case ... and John makes a difficult decision.

**Author's Note:**

> This story comes after 'Return of the Thing' and before 'The Choice.'


End file.
